


last ones out

by sapphirestylan



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War II, Internalized Homophobia, Irish Mythology - Freeform, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Royal Air Force, Slow Burn, like....really.......really slow burn, there simply aren't enough women in this fic and for that i am deeply sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:00:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 49,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22383736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphirestylan/pseuds/sapphirestylan
Summary: ON TO VICTORY, it reads, in bold white block letters against an image of a fighter plane streaking through tar-colored smoke. AIR CREWS WANTED - URGENT!
Relationships: Eleanor Calder/Louis Tomlinson, Harry Styles/Taylor Swift, Niall Horan/Harry Styles, Niall Horan/Shawn Mendes
Comments: 31
Kudos: 47





	1. when dawn broke

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to make this fic as historically accurate as possible, but it’s still very self-indulgent and there are bound to be both mistakes and instances where I had to twist a couple dates or locations to fit the plot. Side note: I went through so much emotional labor in the making of this fic that posting it is essentially me giving birth. This is my newborn child, please treat her nicely. 
> 
> credits:  
> \+ on Jan 1st, 1944, the story Louis tells is based off one told in a scene in The Imitation Game (2014)  
> \+ title from two slow dancers by mitski  
> \+ chapter title based off line in war letter from soldier Ralph Eyde to his brother  
> \+ and a huuuuge thank you to Luana (@butisitjustmadness on tumblr) for proofreading this fic!! thank you so much for your help <333

_I'll never forget the people I met_

_Braving those angry skies_

_I remember well as the shadows fell_

_The light of hope in their eyes_

_And though I'm far away_

_I still can hear them say_

_"Thumbs up!"_

_For when the dawn comes up_

_There'll be bluebirds over_

_The white cliffs of Dover_

_Tomorrow, just you wait and see_

_There'll be love and laughter_

_And peace ever after_

_Tomorrow, when the world is free_

> “The White Cliffs of Dover,” Walter Kent and Nat Burton (1941)

_Myths are stories about people who become too big for their lives temporarily, so that they crash into other lives or brush against the gods. In crisis, their souls are visible._

> “Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides,” Anne Carson (2008)

THE WAR

  
  


_September 25th, 1942._

_Dublin, Ireland._

An automobile squeals past, the black shape of it indistinguishable from the dark. Niall flinches away too late, unable to avoid the splatter of muddy water it sprays up in its wake. It’s pitch dark out here in the street, his path illuminated only by the flickering street lamps that wash everything out in shades of filthy yellow, so different from the warm feel of the pub. 

Someone shoves past him roughly on their way down the sidewalk; he stumbles. 

“Hey!” he hollers after him. The man barely turns his head, eyes shaded by the brim of his hat. “Watch where you’re going!” 

Something crinkles against his shoulder, and he turns his head to look at the paper that’s taped to the side of the building. It’s a poster, printed in garishly bright colors that make his head hurt even in the dark. Part of the colored ink is beginning to smudge with rain drops. 

He studies it curiously for a minute, frown fading away. Then, on impulse, he peels the tape off the top, shoves the paper into his pocket, and continues on his way home. 

* * *

Niall sinks down into an armchair by the fireplace with a heavy sigh, one hand nearly burned from the steaming mug of tea he’s holding and the other still clutching the piece of crumpled, rain-wet paper. 

_ON TO VICTORY,_ it reads, in bold white block letters against an image of a fighter plane streaking through black smoke. _AIR CREWS WANTED - URGENT!_

Outside, the downpour becomes steadily heavier. Fat drops of rain streak down the glass windowpane as the fire crackles. Niall cards a hand through his hair, feeling the damp, wondering when Willie will be finished with his bath so he can get started on his own. 

As if on cue, Willie steps through the adjoining door of their little flat, already dressed in his striped green-and-white pajamas, face half covered with his towel as he scrubs it through his hair. 

“Home already?” Willie asks, plopping down into the armchair opposite Niall. He reaches for the pages of the _Irish Independent_ he hadn't finished that morning. 

“Drunks didn’t put up a fight,” Niall says, and Willie snorts, nothing but his eyebrows visible over the top of the paper. 

“My mum wrote,” he says. The corner of the paper twitches. _BALTIC BASE BOMBED,_ the back of it reads. _Giant four-engined bombers - Lancasters, Stirlings, and Halifaxes, with their great bomb-load capacity - were used exclusively to attack the U-boat yards at Flensburg, German Baltic port, on Wednesday night._

The print is too small for him to read after that. 

“How is she?” 

“She’s well.” Willie turns the page. “She, uh. Said your mum asked after you.” 

The poster in his hand crinkles when his fist clenches. His gaze slides away from Willie’s newspaper to rest on the glow of the fire, jaw feathering. “Oh,” he manages finally, throat tight. He blinks, eyes beginning to sting from the heat. “What did she say?” 

“Just asked if you’re doing alright, and all that,” Willie says lightly. “D’you want me to pass a message on?” 

He asks that every time. It’s always the same answer. 

“No,” he says, smoothing out the wrinkles of the RAF poster in his hand. “But thanks.” 

Willie nods in acknowledgement and falls silent, clearly engrossed in the news. Niall watches his eyebrows knit closer and closer together. _“_ Stalingrad’s sure putting up a fight.” 

He nods. He’d heard a broadcast about it on the radio in the back room of the pub after his shift was over; the reporter was firing off stats about the number of German tanks taken down.

“' _The German News Agency denied last night that the attack on Stalingrad had come to a halt,”_ Willie reads out loud. “ _The German Command has avoided direct attack, and chosen to act according to plan.'”_

“Bastards.” 

Willie grins dryly and lowers his paper, eyes falling to the poster in Niall’s hand. “What’s that you’ve got?” 

He gives a one-shouldered shrug, would-be-casual. He’d forgotten to put it away before Willie came in. “Just something I picked up on my way home.” 

Willie leans over and snatches it away from him before Niall can resist.

“R-A-F.” Willie peers up at him with sharp, curious eyes. “Are you - hold on, are you bloody _enlisting?_ ” His voice turns up an octave at the end. 

“I’m _not_ ,” Niall insists, and grabs the poster back from him. His ears are growing warm, and he can feel himself getting more defensive by the second, though he’s not sure what for. He’d taken the thing home out of idle curiosity, not because he actually planned to join up. Never mind that he’s had the idea lingering in the back of his head for months now. “Besides, what’s it to you?” 

“What’s it to either of us?” Willie says, leaning forward in his chair. “We’re not _human_ , Niall. We’re not even mortal. Forget the fact that we’re not even bloody English - their issues, they’re fleeting.”

“That doesn’t make them any less _important_.” 

“But-” 

“ _I_ _rreconcilable differences_ or not,” Niall snaps, “what’s happening is wrong. And if I can help put a stop to it, then that’s what I’ll fucking do.” 

That’s the term Willie had used, the first time they talked about it. 

People chalked the belief in _fae_ up to superstition years and years ago, but they haven’t gone anywhere. They still exist - everywhere, all over the country, the continent, hidden in plain sight, silent about their nature. No one’s too eager to start another witch hunt. It’s why they try and distance themselves from human affairs as much as possible without drawing attention to themselves. 

“Little Nialler, in the Royal fuckin’ Air Force,” Willie snorts, as if he hadn’t said anything, shaking his head. Niall resists the urge to remind him he’s only three and a half years younger. “What’re you even gonna do out there? It’s not all fun and games, Niall-” 

“I know that,” he says. “I’m not a child.” 

“What makes you think you’re prepared to go into actual battle, though?” 

“No one’s prepared. That’s why they train.” 

“The Royal Air Force,” Willie repeats, shaking his head. “You know what the rate is in there, Niall? _One in two_.” 

“Yeah.” 

“That’s fifty percent! Half the boys that go in the air never come back!” 

“I know what one in two means, for Christ’s sake-” 

“If you don’t get shot down on your first operation, it’ll be your second. Enlisting is the same as digging your own grave, you know that?” 

“Sure.” 

“You’re really going to risk immortality to fly a plane?” 

“As least I’ll be doing something useful,” he says hotly. “Might take a couple of those bastards down with me.” 

Willie slumps back in his chair, regarding him with a look of unfiltered amazement. “You’re actually serious about this.” 

Niall folds the paper up and carefully avoids his gaze. “It’s just an _option_.” 

“You gonna tell your ma?” 

“Said I haven’t thought about it too much, didn’t I?” 

“Well, you’ve got balls for having the idea, I’ll give you that,” Willie says, eyebrows continuing on their journey into his hairline. 

Niall feels as if he’d won the lottery when it came to Willie, even though he stomps all over his nerves more often than not. Nearly every other relative outside his family had been just the same - sneering, so holier-than-thou about his condition - but not Willie. He’s never brought it up on purpose, never leered at him for it. It’s why Niall had the guts to leave home five years ago in the first place, because he knew as long as he could get to Dublin, as long as he could get to the only person in his family he was close to, he’d be safe.

Willie only knows half of it, though. He’s never told him the other factor, the real tipping point that convinced him to leave home. He'll never tell anyone that bit at all. 

“Anyways, you should get on that bath, if you’re having one. I want to go to bed early tonight.” His gaze falls on Niall’s tea, and he makes a gentle clucking noise, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t drink that at night. It’ll keep you up.” 

“It doesn’t make a difference, I’ll be up anyways,” Niall says, getting to his feet with a sigh, joints aching from the perpetual cold in the flat. “Besides, I need time to think.” 

_July 01, 1943._

_Royal Air Force Base: Wickenby, England._

Sunlight’s flooded the room by the time Niall wakes up. Dust motes twirl lazily through the sunbeams that stretch out on the floor to just barely touch the edge of his mattress, and he blinks away from the glare, mind still foggy with sleep. 

“Mornin’, sleepyhead,” a voice drawls quietly from the bunk beside his. Niall rolls onto his side, squinting at him. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, chin propped up on the heel of his hand, hair falling into his eyes again. The plain white undershirt he’s wearing is rucked up near his waist. Niall’s eyes laze there for a moment before sliding away. 

He rolls back over and yawns, staring up at the bottom of the top bunk where the wooden slats creak as Louis turns restlessly above him. “Watching me sleep again?” 

“I was waiting for you to wake up.” 

“Could’ve done the honors yourself.” 

He sees Harry shrug out of the corner of his eye. 

“You looked peaceful. I didn’t want to disturb you.” 

Niall whips the sheets off with a sigh, swinging his legs over the edge so that he’s mirroring Harry’s position. He scrubs a hand through his hair. “What time is it?” 

“‘Bout 10:30.” Harry’s face changes, growing uncharacteristically solemn. “Ops are on tonight.” 

Niall stiffens at that, heart jerking sharp in his chest. There’s no need to be nervous, he tells himself. They’ve been training for 9 months, flown countless practice flights, gone through God knows how many emergency drills. He could probably navigate with his eyes closed, at this point. 

It’s just - this is the real thing, now. They’ll be under real fire, dropping real bombs. Run the real risk of getting shot down and becoming another number in the ever growing death toll. 

“I’m gonna wake up the rest of the lads,” Harry tells him, getting to his feet. 

“Right.” 

Niall waits until he’s gone to reach into his pillowcase, pulling out a tarnished copper coin. 

He flips it absentmindedly, the raised design on the front catching the light far brighter than it should, even in the mid-morning sunlight. 

He’s gonna need as much luck as he can get tonight. 

* * * 

There’s two and a half hours of spare time between briefing and suiting up, and Harry spends most of it sleeping in the barracks. 

A lot of the boys are sitting in their bunks, writing out letters to their families. Niall feels sick watching them; the situation feels all too very real, now, as the men around him prepare for probable death. Fionn, his crew’s rear gunner, looks especially nervous, pale and sweaty where he sits in his top bunk above a soundly snoring Harry. Rear gunners have got the worst fatality rate of them all, on account of how difficult it is to get out of their position in emergencies. He thinks about talking to him, maybe calming him down, but decides against it. 

He writes his own letter instead, addressed to Willie. _If you get this, it means I’m dead._ Harry stirs slightly in his bunk, making a soft noise. _You probably already know that. Anyways, you can have my good coat and my guitar. When they mail back my things I want you to have my shilling also. Give the rest of it to my ma and da if you want, it doesn’t matter much._

_Thanks for letting me stay with you all these years._

_Best,_

_Nialler._

He doesn’t think he can stomach a bite, feels like he’s gonna hurl with anxiety anyways, but Liam, their crew’s standard pilot - big guy, sweet smile, kind eyes - reminds him it’s a fifteen hour flight and that he’ll get hungry in the air. 

So Niall packs himself a sandwich (stale bread and sliced cheese), makes Harry one too, and then stuffs them in his parachute bag before the call sounds and all of them begin trooping out to the crew room to get dressed. 

The air in the locker room is stuffy with the smell of old sweat and the anxiety radiating off every one of the aircrew, so heavy Niall feels he can barely breathe with it. Harry’s there beside him, though, offering him a weak smile as he does up the buttons on his flying suit. 

“We’ll be fine, yeah?” Harry says, too chipper, clapping him on the shoulder as he struggles to tug his boots on. They’re extraordinarily thick, and they have to be - at the altitude they’ll be at, frostbite is a serious danger. 

“Don’t wanna jinx it,” Niall mutters, checking one last time that his coin is stuffed in his sock before standing up straight again. 

Harry just squeezes his shoulder. He looks as sick as Niall feels. 

“Stop that,” he frowns suddenly, reaching up and pulling Niall’s hand away from where he’s been biting at his cuticles. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it, and he stares down at the raw skin of his thumb like it doesn’t quite belong to him. “You’ll make it bleed.” 

Too soon, they’re speeding down the road in a canvas topped truck, driven by one of the WAAF members - Taylor, he thinks her name is. Harry’s riding shotgun beside her, talking to her, both of them giggling quietly about something. Strands of Taylor’s blond hair keep whipping back with the wind, and he can’t see much of Harry’s face except for the sharp crease of the dimple in his left cheek. Niall turns his head to watch the last rays of light fade from the sky instead. 

Something settles underneath his skin when their plane comes into view - it’s a Handley Page Halifax, one of the best aircrafts in the war. The thick glass of the nose glimmers brightly in the sunset, and he reminds himself they’ve got a fair chance of surviving with this thing. And a fair chance is more than most men get, anyways. 

They go through a final check before takeoff. His personal things are in order, his maps are properly folded up and stored neatly away, his RE system is turned on and functioning. He triple checks everything. The only thing left is to make sure that the astrodome’s not jammed, and he does so quickly, twisting it this way and that and peering up at a half-lit sky through it, the stars still hidden out of view. 

_“Oi, Neil!”_

Niall frowns, turning his head to see where the voice had come from - and sees Louis, their mid gunner, in his own turret twenty feet down the length of the plane, grinning and flipping him the bird cheerfully. He looks like a floating head with the rest of his body hidden, and Niall grins and responds in kind. 

_“Hello, navigator.”_

“Hello, skipper,” Niall replies quickly, adjusting his intercom. Liam’s not their pilot on the first operation - he’ll be secondary pilot on some other crew’s flight, just to test the waters before he leads his own into battle. Right now, it’s some Australian fellow - Hemmings. 

“ _Everything’s well?”_

He makes his way back down to the area underneath the pilot’s space, where the wireless operator, Jack, sits. Jack smiles, flashes him a thumbs up. Niall feels remarkably calmer than he did on the drive out, and he supposes that’s one of the advantages of having a consistent crew to fly with; this is why some refuse to fly if one of their members is sick. 

“Yeah, everything’s quite well.” 

The intercom crackles, and a few moments later, Harry beside him in the nose of the craft murmurs, _yes, everything’s working properly._ Niall sees him pulling the cross pendant back and forth on the silver chain around his neck, glinting in the dim light. 

He’s jolted where he stands as the plane begins to move, and he folds the navigator bench back so he and Harry can move from the nose of the plane to the middle. It makes for a safer crash, supposedly. 

The metal bar is freezing cold under his palm where he grips it tightly, keeping him steady as the plane jolts over the uneven runway. He’s standing behind Harry, who’s behind Louis, and then there’s Bressie - their flight engineer - and Fionn and Jack on the other side. _We’ll be alright,_ he thinks. _We’ll be fine._

“Thumbs up!” the intercom rings out. The go-ahead signal. 

The worst part, in his opinion, is when the engine comes to life - and there it is, a dull roar that fills his skull as the plane begins to pick up speed, screaming down towards the edge of the runway. 

At this point, the slightest thing going wrong (an engine failure, a tire blow-out, a wheel running into the soft grass at the edge of the runway-) means catastrophe. It means two thousand gallons of fuel, five tons of incendiary bombs, and a few thousand rounds of ammo crashing at over a hundred and thirty miles per hour - to put it simply, instant death. 

But it doesn’t happen. They’re in the air within sixty seconds, and that gripping terror releases Niall temporarily from its hold. 

And so it begins. 

* * * 

_“Where is he, Fionn? Can you see him?”_

The rattle of the machine gun fills the air again. Niall rips the cap off a fresh pen with his teeth and scribbles down their coordinates frantically, Harry watching observantly from beside him on the bench. The curtains are drawn tight around them to keep any light from the instruments getting out and making them visible. 

_“Down, down,”_ Fionn’s voice crackles over the intercom, _“He’s come down!”_

_“Did you shoot him down?”_

_“Yeah!”_

The sound of cheers echoes through the Halifax, and even Niall, busy as he is, manages a grin. 

It’s curious, the way the big picture, so to speak, fades entirely from his mind the further they fly. He no longer worries himself about Nazis and the cities reduced to rubble and the feeble wins and tremendous losses of the war. None of the things he preoccupied himself with so far away in Dublin. 

It feels like a lifetime ago, sitting in the armchair by the fire and making comfortable small talk with Willie after coming home from the pub. Mundane, boring, maybe. But it was safe, and it was routine. Something he could lose himself in. 

He can never get too far in his head here, though - that’d mean certain disaster. What he worries himself with now is a new routine: oxygen flow, maps of Germany, exact coordinates, wiggling his toes to promote blood flow. 

“Where’re you goin’?” Harry says blearily when he makes to move. He’s not got a proper job to do, Harry, until they actually get to Frankfurt, so he’s been helping Niall navigate for the past nine hours. Worryingly, he already looks dead tired. 

“I’m just checking we’re on course,” Niall tells him, swishing the curtain back before going up the stairs to the astrodome. 

* * * 

_“They’re searching for us,”_ Harry’s voice crackles over the intercom. They’ve got fifteen minutes until they reach Frankfurt, and he’s lying on his belly in the very nose of the aircraft less than five feet away from Niall, getting ready. _“Bastards.”_

The sweep of searchlights flashes over them again for a heartbeat too long, and the Halifax swerves sharply, diving back into the darkness. The pepper of enemy gunfire rings through the air. 

_“They’re firing at us now,”_ Louis says calmly. 

_“Are they?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Bombardier,”_ Hemmings says. 

Harry swears softly under his breath, gaze fixed on the scene outside. 

“ _Yeah?”_

_“Could you check the temperatures?”_

Harry shifts around. _“Sorry, what?”_

_“Check the temperatures.”_

Niall sees Harry twist where he’s lying to look up at the panel to his right. There’s a moment’s pause. 

_“All good.”_

_“Alright, thank you. We’ll be dropping in a few minutes.”_

_“Sounds good.”_

“We’re making great time, boys, _”_ Niall chips in, glancing at the radar. “We just passed Karben.” 

Four and a half minutes later, he pulls the curtain back for a moment, sticking his head just to steal a glance at the scene beyond the glass - and loses his breath. 

It looks like something out of Dante’s Inferno, an honest-to-God hellscape; the dark sky glows orange at the edges like the world itself is burning. 

Because the city of Frankfurt is on fire. It glows a thousand times brighter than it should because of the sheer scale of the bombs unloaded on it, and it’s created a firestorm, fueling itself with the air it sucks out of the buildings. The sound of gunfire still fills his ears, explosions booming in the distance, lighting up the sky like fireworks, and _Christ_ , Niall thinks. Nothing could have prepared him for this.

What’s more frightening, though, is the fact that they’re pulling along straight and level now, so that they’re steady enough for Harry to drop the bomb accurately. A clear target for the flak below, for any night fighter circling them. A horrible, hot wave of terror washes over him, and for a good while he’s frozen, staring at the back of Harry’s head, at the fires below them. 

_“Left, left,”_ Harry says, voice remarkably calm. _“A bit more. Okay, there - hold steady, hold steady…”_ The beat of his heart is heavy in his chest, anticipation knotting tight in his gut - and then the Halifax lurches upwards all at once, relieved of its payload. _“Bombs gone.”_

Niall breathes a long sigh of relief as the Halifax swings away from the glare of the fires and into the cover of dark. Harry crawls out of his position, settling down heavily next to Niall. He looks pale, shaky. 

He switches his mic off. “You alright, Haz?” His voice sounds exhausted to his own ears. 

“I’m fine,” Harry says, eyes sliding away to rest on the red screen of the RE system. “I’m fine.” 

“Christ, I’m knackered,” Niall mumbles around a sudden yawn, pulling the fur collar of his coat closer to his throat. It’s bloody freezing in here, even with the insulation and his countless layers. 

“You could sleep a bit, ‘f’you wanted,” Harry offers. His shoulder is pressed tight against Niall’s on account of how small the bench is, faces close together. Niall blinks blearily at him. He’s never noticed quite how green his eyes are, and they seem brighter than usual under the yellow lamplight. 

“But the course home-” 

“It’s basic navigation, I can handle it,” Harry reassures him. “I’ll wake you up if anything happens.” 

“There’s sandwiches in my parachute bag if you want them,” Niall mumbles, rubbing at his eyes, stomach growling softly. “You can have both.” 

“Thanks.” 

It’s a tight squeeze to get through to the bombardier’s position, to where he can lay down comfortably where Harry had not five minutes ago. If he forgets the cold, he can pretend to feel the heat of Harry’s body still lingering there around him, smelling like the clementines he’s so fond of and the leather of his flying suit. 

* * * 

Harry wakes him up just before landing. 

They stand in the passenger section again, holding onto the metal support poles as Hemmings eases them down to the strip. There’s nothing more than a yolky strip of light on the horizon, barely illuminating the sky; Niall’s still half asleep. The crew’s dead silent all the way through touchdown and taxiing, not daring to break the silence, as if in disbelief that they’re actually here. All in one piece. 

They file out of the plane one by one. Harry bumps his head on the hatch. 

They stand next to the Halifax, the whole group of them. There’s not too much battle damage on her, all things considered - just a few peppered holes in the wing, in the side. Nothing that can’t be fixed. 

“Well, boys,” Bressie sighs finally, looking around at all of them. His face breaks slowly, slowly, into an uncontrollable smile. “We made it.” 

“We made it,” Louis echoes after a beat, laughing, and then he’s reaching out and pulling Harry into a hug, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. Niall finds himself crushed into one by Bressie and Jack, incredulous laughter spilling out of his mouth and soaking into the sleeve of his uniform. 

Harry pulls him against him next, squeezes him so tight he feels like he could burst with it, the ends of his hair tickling Niall’s ear. His cheeks hurt with how hard he’s smiling. 

Debriefing is a blur. Niall spreads his maps out on the sticky mess hall table and relays everything to the officer assigned to their crew - the night fighters they took down, and when; the location of searchlights and flak ships they encountered; if they dropped bombs on time. If not for that nap Harry had let him take, he might be three words away from passing out right now, but as it is, Harry’s the one who’s staring blearily into his half-full mug of tea like the secrets of the universe lie deep within. 

It’s only after that that they finally get to have breakfast. It’s nothing more than greasy strips of bacon and rubbery scrambled eggs, but Niall couldn’t care less, hunched over the table and scarfing everything down like it’s his last meal.

Harry startles next to him when Louis nudges his shoulder, blinking hazily up at him. “Whatsit?” 

“They’re taking men back out to the airfield if we want to paint the plane,” Louis tells him, eyes flicking over to Niall. “D’you two want to do it?” 

Harry’s head swings back around to face him. “What do you think?” 

“Sure,” Niall shrugs, swallowing his mouthful. “What should we paint?” 

Louis seems to mull over it, tilting his head and scratching at the sparse stubble on his cheek. “A four-leaf clover, for our favorite Irishman,” he smiles, ruffling Niall’s hair. Louis’ got an assortment of little siblings he left at home, Niall remembers, and grins back easily. 

* * * 

“You never say anything about it,” Harry pipes from where he’s sitting on the seventh step of the ladder, tilting his head back to look at Niall properly. The wind pushes his hair into his eyes again. “About Ireland. Your family.” 

Niall’s jaw feathers on instinct, grip tightening on the paintbrush in his hand. His feet are swinging free in between the legs of the ladder, high enough that he’s level with the body of their Halifax. Around them, groups of aircrew are painting their own planes. Using different symbols, of course - some have chosen pints, some bombs, some scantily clad women. One for every successful mission. 

“Nothing much to tell,” he says finally, continuing to slowly fill in the giant shamrock on the side of the Halifax underneath the yellow block letters that read _SEAMAIR ÁDH,_ Gaelic for ‘lucky clover.’ He turns, sees the skeptical look Harry’s giving him. “Honestly. Grew up in a normal town, normal house. I have a brother named Greg, and a mother and a father who divorced when I was six.” 

Harry seems to chew on that for a minute, then says, “Do you and Greg get on?” 

The paintbrush stills. “No,” he answers honestly. “We don’t.” 

Niall’s always been jealous of Harry, the easy relationship he shares with every member of his family - even his mum’s new husband, Robin. He’s seen the picture of Gemma and Anne he keeps tucked in his pillowcase. The way he handles every new letter he gets from home, like the very fibers of the paper might unravel at any second. How warm his voice is when he talks about them. Even the damn cat, though he’s heard she’s not quite as fond of Harry. 

When he thinks about it, he knows quite a lot about Harry - bits and pieces amassed over the nine or so months they’ve trained together. For his part, though, he’s kept mum about everything. 

“Why do you live with your cousin?” 

Niall freezes mid-brushstroke, brows knitting together in his confusion. “What?”

“You mentioned him once,” Harry says, “back when we started training. Said you lived with him in Dublin.” 

“You remembered that?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Oh. Well, I’ve lived with him since I was…” he tilts his head, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Sixteen.” 

“You ran away?” 

He’s almost proud of the way he doesn’t react at all externally, save for the minute twitch of his jaw. It’s been five years, but he can still picture the scene perfectly in his mind. Sixteen years old, rosy cheeked, spotty, mouth full of metal, walking obviously into the situation of his nightmares. His ma and da and older brother sat at the dining table, clearly waiting for him, matching expressions on their faces. 

“Sorry,” Harry says quietly, and when Niall snaps out of his stupor and glances down at him, he’s worrying over his bottom lip. Something in his chest stutters at the sight of Harry’s mouth so red and wet, but he brushes it aside without a second thought. Or, he - he tries to. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” 

“I’m not upset,” Niall says, sounding vaguely upset. “Have you heard from your mum recently?” 

And then Harry’s off, happily distracted as he babbles on about how the baby in Gemma’s belly kicks sometimes now and how chuffed he is that the owner of the bakery still asks after him. The topic’s mundane enough that it brings Niall back down to earth, grounds him in the present. Apparently Harry’s got a new parcel as well, full of warm clothes of his from home. “Mum sent a lot of my old stuff, too, she said they should fit you pretty well-” 

“Hold on,” Niall pauses. The shamrock’s all painted in. “Your mum knows about me?” 

“Yeah, I told her about you _ages_ ago.” Harry frowns. The sun’s begun to draw up over the horizon, casting tentative rays that make his hair glow auburn. “You’re my best mate, Niall, of course she knows about you.” 

He laughs, then, like Niall’s silly for asking such a question. 

Niall’s chest is tight all of a sudden, no room for air with how big his heart’s swelling, how warm he feels all over. 

“And she...sent me clothes?” 

He shrugs with one, loose shoulder. “Yeah.” 

“Oh.” Niall’s gaze slides back to the Halifax, unable to stop the smile spreading across his face. “Tell her - tell her I said thank you, would you?” _Thanks_ doesn’t quite grasp the whole emotion, but it’ll have to do. 

“Sure thing.” Harry glances around. The trucks have arrived and most of the crew are beginning to file in. “You about done?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m finished.” He looks at Harry’s face properly, and frowns. “Hang on, you’ve got-” he leans down, brushing a thumb over the side of Harry’s jaw. It comes away wet with yellow paint. “Dunno how that got there.” 

“Thanks,” Harry says, and smiles up at him with the rising sun haloing his head. 

_July 19th, 1943._

_Royal Air Force Base: Wickenby, England._

_1700,_ Niall scrawls hurriedly at the top of the page before grabbing his map back from Harry’s lap and uncapping his pen with his teeth. He draws a fat red line from RAF Wickenby over the English Channel and out to Cologne - the ‘dog leg’, the diversion - then from Cologne to their real target in Rome, and finally back to Wickenby. He writes the flight times in next to the lines; 1 hour to Cologne, 2 hours to Rome, 6 and 30 back home. 

“There’s searchlight batteries over Antwerp and Eindhoven, so head east when flying to Cologne,” the intelligence officer adds, and Niall draws a hash over the region with the marker. 

He glances up quickly at the giant map of Europe pinned up behind the commanding officer, comparing it to his own to make sure he’s got it right. Once he’s finished triple checking it, he realizes Harry’s staring at him. 

“What?” 

“How long is the flight to Rome,” Harry whispers, leaning in unnecessarily close. His skin smells like Niall’s own soap, the good kind he bought from town, not army-issue - must’ve filched it from him, the dog. 

“2 hours,” he whispers back, reaching over and scribbling it onto Harry’s map himself so that it’s legible. Harry’s got truly god-awful handwriting at the best of times, so Niall usually ends up marking up two maps instead of just his own. “You’ve got the wind speed, yeah?” 

Harry nods, pinching his lower lip between two fingers as he stares down at his map. Harry’s always been a bit slow to catch on to things in briefings, something Niall’s learned during their time together - but that’s not to say he’s stupid, or anything. If his horrible jokes don’t count, you could call him intelligent. 

* * * 

_“How many search lights down there?”_

_“Too many.”_

The beam of light passes over them again for a fraction of a second, and a moment later gunfire rings through the air. He sees Harry flinch ever so slightly where he lays in the bombardier’s position, and when he turns his head, he can see the clear mark where a bullet had struck the glass and found its target. 

_“I’ve got it,”_ Harry reports, voice less steady than usual as he peers through the bomb sight. “ _Ah, go left...bit more. Right. Slow it down.”_

_“Slowing it down.”_

A piece of shrapnel cracks loudly against the glass. He sees Harry flinch violently again through the corner of his eye. 

_“Bombs gone.”_

* * * 

Harry sits on the ladder, face upturned, a pleased smile splitting his face. Niall sits above him and fills in the fourth clover while the sun draws up over the horizon. 

_July 21st, 1943._

_The English Channel._

In the air, time passes either in a blur or seemingly not at all. 

At the moment, it’s the latter - they’ve been circling for the past half hour waiting for the light to fade. The sun clings to the sky like it doesn’t want to go just yet. 

Not to mention Niall feels as if his fingers have been frozen stiff with the altitude. They were meant to go as high as possible to avoid any flak over Normandy, but at what cost, he thinks, shifting closer to Harry to try and leech off some of his warmth. His own oxygen tubes nearly froze a few minutes ago, before he remembered just in time to pinch it and jostle out the bits of ice. 

_“I’ve just got the go ahead from Bomber Command,”_ Jack reports ten minutes later, jolting Niall out of his cold, sleepy stupor. 

Through the thick glass of the Halifax’s nose, he watches as they turn and set out over the English Channel. He glances down at his maps, eyes catching on the little lightning symbol he’d drawn over the enemy coast, and the red hash on top of it. “Captain,” he says, brows drawing together. “We’re flying straight into known flak. And a bloody massive storm.” 

_“I’m aware,_ ” Liam sighs, his exhale crackling over the intercom. _“We’ve got to keep on course, though.”_

“If we go through the storm I won’t be able to know where we are,” Niall warns. “It’ll interfere with my systems.” 

_“That’s alright. We’ve flown blind before.”_

Liam’s right, they have, but that doesn’t make him any more comfortable with it. Keeping track of where they are, if they’re doing things correctly - that’s his _job_. So when he has to let go of that certainty, even for a few minutes, it - honestly, it sort of makes him want to retch. 

Louis calls him dramatic. Harry calls him obsessive, and in a kinder tone. 

_“19,000 feet,”_ Liam reports. 

The sky outside is dark, save for the occasional distant flash of lightning. The thunder blends in with the roar of the engine, and Niall knocks his ankle against Harry’s, a queasy feeling of panic washing over him. 

“ _17,000...15,000.”_

Harry looks over at him just as a deafening explosion rattles the very frame of the Halifax. His green eyes grow wide, and he whips his head back around to look out through the nose. Niall can hear the sound of shrapnel pinging off the metal of the plane. 

Another explosion, and this time he sees the flash of a bomb. Without turning back to look at him, Harry’s hand flies out to find his and grip it tight. 

Niall looks down at it in surprise, but doesn’t pull his hand away. The skin of Harry’s knuckles is stretched tight over bone, and when he looks at him, he can see the edge of fear in his eyes. 

They’ve not gone on enough ops to lose the anxiety that underlies everything they do in the air. The more experienced crew claim it actually gets boring, and while Niall can’t imagine not being constantly wracked with terror, he supposes he sort of understands it. When you’ve gone through that many operations, you’ve also had to resign yourself to the fact that every second could be your last. The fear becomes a secondary fixture, if a fixture at all; you have to grow to accept death when it comes and do your duty regardless, no matter how futile the mission is, no matter how hopeless the battle seems. 

They get through both the storm and the flak, eventually. Niall gets sick with the way Liam flips the plane sixty degrees every five seconds and continues switchbacking up and down in the air a thousand feet at a time, but he swallows down the bile and keeps tapping the RE system to try and get it to restart once they’re out of the storm. 

Nineteen minutes later, they reach the outskirts of their target. The town of Friedrichshafen remains resolutely dark; the Germans are too disciplined to risk the safety of such a sizable population with searchlights for an aircraft that might just pass by. 

On level, parallel lines over the town, the Pathfinders drop their flares - bright, glowing green lights in the darkness, sinking down into the night. The Halifax shudders again as it drops a few thousand feet, running between the two flare lanes. 

The ghostly shapes of buildings begin to take form in the glow just as Harry says, _“I’ve got it.”_

When it comes, the explosion shockwaves hit them hard. 

“ _Steady,”_ Jack murmurs, eyes sharp as they flick over his radio instruments. They body of the plane trembles again. 

Louis pipes up to compliment Harry, his high voice crackling over the intercom. _“That was a good one, that. Hit it dead center.”_

 _“Let’s make another round, shall we?”_ Liam interrupts, swinging the Halifax back around over the town. Niall can see that the searchlights have coned another of their bombers, the plane swinging wildly in and out of the light in a desperate attempt to shake the flak rocketing up at them in bright streaks of light. 

The clock hits 2:00 AM. They’ve released six bombs, caught a bullet in the oil tank, and acquired a gaping hole less than four inches to the right of Fionn’s head where flak broke through the metal. Niall directs Liam as they swing east, climbing ever-higher in the sky in order to clear the peaks of the Austrian leg of the Alps. 

There’s something ghostly about those mountains, Niall thinks, watching them approach on the horizon like jagged glass. Peaceful, without burning towns or the sweep of searchlights or even the echoing patter of gunfire, but in an empty, pallid way. 

Death, he thinks, is the color of these snow-capped mountains. Death is quiet, and calm, and blue-grey under the moonlight. 

He’s thought about it a lot. What it would feel like, how it would happen. If he’d feel terror, or panic, or relief. 

The one thing he’s grateful for is that he’s not one of the soldiers toiling away in the sludge fourteen thousand feet below, crawling up muddy beaches or getting shot in the head or watching his mates get gunned down beside him. Death in the air, at the very least, seems cleaner. 

Another of the few things he’s grateful for in this damned war comes sidling up to him on the bench with a smile and weary eyes under the dim lights of the plane. 

“How’re you holding up?” Harry murmurs, voice soft and muffled through his oxygen mask. He’s switched his intercom off, and Niall gets the feeling that even though they’re talking about mundane things, the conversation is intimate. 

“Alright.” He nudges his shoulder against Harry’s. “You?” 

“Keep forgetting we have another five hour leg,” Harry laughs, reaching up to rub at his eyes. “At least we’ll have a long stop in Maison Blanche.” 

“And plenty of wine,” Niall adds. 

“Wine,” Harry sighs miserably. “Can barely remember what it tastes like.” 

“Could you ever?” 

“What!” The laugh Harry lets out sounds like it was punched out of him, sudden and sharp. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“I’m just saying. You’re awfully young.” 

“I’m _not,_ ” Harry snaps, though he’s smiling. “I’m only a year younger than you, for God’s sake-” 

Niall pauses to pinch his oxygen tubes, wiggling them around to feel the puff of air on his nose so he doesn’t pass out without realizing it. On instinct, he reaches over and does the same for Harry’s tubes, cracking a smile at the way Harry wrinkles his nose and watches him through the corner of his eyes like a child. 

_July 22nd, 1943._

_Maison Blanche, Algeria._

Maison Blanche is sweltering. The city is a maze of sun-bleached white buildings teetering on the edge of a sparkling blue bay, and it’s the most gorgeous place Niall’s ever seen. 

Granted, he shouldn’t have seen very much of it - they’d been warned by the American soldiers not to stray from the base unless they have their tropical kit or else they’d get stopped and probably arrested. Louis, however, finds himself unable to resist the appeal of alcohol, and soon their little crew is traipsing down the night-blanketed streets of Maison Blanche half-dressed in their flight uniforms and giddy with the childish excitement of being somewhere new. 

Strictly speaking, their group has only stopped here to refuel before heading back to Wickenby. Maison Blanche has been controlled by the French since the Torch operation about a year ago, so they pass plenty of French crew in the street. One group greets them with an amiable, general drunken cheer as they walk to the local pub, and they respond in like. 

God, but he’s so ready to forget about the fucking war for tonight. 

He feels a jerk on his sleeve suddenly.

“Look,” Harry says, pointing at the storefront next to them. It’s a bookstore, and the lights inside, although low, mean it’s open. 

“Harry,” Niall sighs. He spares a glance past him to the rest of the group still obliviously tramping down the road. “Ugh, fine.”

It’s dusty and cool inside the store. Harry hovers behind him cautiously as the bell on the door tinkles in their wake. There’s shelves upon shelves of books, some for the faded and well-loved and less for the brand spanking new. 

Harry’s drawn eventually to a shelf marked _NOUVEAU_ , and stands in front of it with his shoulders familiarly hunched and hands clasped behind his back. Niall picks up a book at random and rifles through the corners of the pages, watching numbers whiz by. 

He’s just about to set it down when Harry, turning around, says sheepishly, “I forgot it’s in French.” 

He’s holding a book with whimsical pastel colors on the front; _Le Petit Prince._

“You could ask for one in English.” 

“I doubt they have it.” 

“No harm in asking.”

Before Harry can argue, Niall goes up to the counter and taps the bell lightly. He hears a grumble and a dull _thud_ from the back room, and moments later, a stout, graying lady comes bustling towards them. 

“Hello,” Niall says, smiling politely. The woman’s frown doesn’t budge. “Uh, we were wondering if you had a translated copy of this book?” He slides _Le Petit Prince_ across the counter. 

The woman eyes the book, then stares up at him and Harry. “You are...soldiers,” she says, in halting English and a thick accent Niall can’t place.

“Er, yes,” Harry tells her. “We’re based in the city for a few days-” 

“You want English?” she interrupts, patting the book, and Harry nods promptly. “You pay extra.” 

“Niall,” he mutters. He tugs at his sleeve. “It’s fine, just leave it.” 

“Stuff it,” Niall says, pulling out his wallet. “It’s _alright,_ ” he repeats when Harry opens his mouth to protest.

They get the book eventually. Niall pays for both of their purchases, despite Harry’s frown: Harry’s translated copy of _Le Petit Prince_ and Niall’s _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn._

* * * 

“Hurry up and shoot already.” 

Niall sets his glass down and tosses the dice onto the sticky wood. They come up one and three. He scoops them up and rolls again; two and six. 

“Bets!” Louis crows, pushing a coin towards the middle. They’re playing Hazard for pocket change, but he still treats it like it’s heavy business. “Sixpence.” 

“Twelve,” Bressie says, and all of them groan as they fish around in their pockets for another coin. 

“All against?” 

“All against,” they chorus. 

Niall rolls his eyes as he tosses the dice onto the table once more. “Have a little faith, lads.” 

They come up six and six, which nicks his original eight. Louis sighs as Niall laughs triumphantly and scoops all of their money into the palm of his hand. It won’t get him much more than a bar of soap with how expensive things are in this town, but it’ll have him miles cleaner than the rest of them. He can’t remember the last time he took a shower that wasn’t just rinsing off for thirty seconds. 

Then it’s Jack’s turn. He rolls a one and a two on his first try - an automatic loss. 

“Christ, Jack,” Louis says mildly as he collects the dice. “You’re actual shit at this.” 

He’s right; every time they play, Jack loses spectacularly. So does Bressie, though that’s because he only plays to annoy Louis by driving up the wager and doesn’t care about the game itself. 

Niall just gives a one-shouldered shrug in reply. “Can’t win ‘em all, can he.” 

“No,” Harry says, from across the table. “He can’t.” He’s staring at Niall so hard he’s surprised there isn’t a hole burned through his head. 

The inexplicable tension is shattered when Louis, who has arrived at tipsy town, throws the dice so hard one of them bounces off a glass and lands in Harry’s drink. 

Taylor appears almost two hours later and corners Harry outside the bar as they’re beginning the short walk home. Niall takes his time putting on his coat. He’s _not_ eavesdropping. 

“They’re showing a movie at the theater tomorrow night,” Taylor says quietly, her hand resting on Harry’s arm. “Will you be in town?” 

Suddenly, Harry looks over at him. Niall coughs and turns away hastily. 

“Uh, yeah. I can be.” 

“Would you like to join me?” 

Niall risks another glance back at them. He scuffs his feet through the dirt, studying the way the moonlight turns Taylor’s hair silver, watching as Harry steps closer, a ready smile on his face. 

“Of course.” 

Niall turns away and starts walking. Harry can find his way back to the base alone, he’s not a child, and he’s certainly not as drunk as Louis had been. He doesn’t know why he was waiting. Maybe he’d hoped - well, never mind. 

Nonetheless, Harry catches up with him a couple of minutes later, feet crunching heavily in the gravel as he jogs to reach Niall. He falls into step beside him casually. 

“So,” Niall starts, trying hard to keep the edge out of his voice. “Hot date tomorrow?” 

Harry glances over at him and then scoffs, looking down at his feet. “It’s not like that.” 

“Sounds like it.” 

“Didn’t ask what it bloody sounds like, did I.” 

Niall just laughs. 

A half moon glows brilliantly over head, so white it almost hurts his eyes to look at it. They’re almost home, he figures. He can still hear chatter coming from the pub so far behind them. 

Remembering the books in the pocket of his coat, he sticks his hand in and sweeps a thumb over the corners of the pages, losing himself in the repetitive motion.

“So, um. Got a letter today,” Harry says. His voice sounds strange. 

“Yeah? How’s your mum? And Gemma?” 

“She, uh.” Harry clears his throat. “Well, she.” 

Niall glances over at him.

“Harry?” 

Harry ducks his chin, staring at his feet. 

“Gemma...had the baby.” 

Niall’s heart plummets. The baby was due in November. 

It’s July. 

“She was alive for two minutes.” 

“Oh,” Niall says, “Oh, God. Is she - Christ, I’m so sorry, Harry." 

Harry starts crying, and the only thing Niall knows to do is to hug him, so he does. It’s one of those bone-crushing hugs where he’s not sure if Harry is embracing him or attempting to absorb him, but he doesn’t mind. It seems unfair that tragedies at home go on at the same time tragedies at war do, and that good people like Harry should suffer doubly. 

When Harry calms down and they start walking again, he asks Niall to talk to him. 

“Just tell me things,” he says, still sniffling. “Anything. I don’t want to think about it anymore.” 

Niall roots around in his head for a moment, and then he does. 

“Have I told you about how much the nuns at school hated me?” 

“Can’t imagine anyone hating you.” 

“Sap. Anyways, for starters, I was left-handed…” 

* * * 

“Jesus, did something _die_ in here?” 

“When’s the last time _you_ showered?” 

“Hey, fuck you.” 

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” 

Jack chucks a soiled sock at him, face splitting in an ear-to-ear grin when it whacks Niall square in the face. 

“You’re disgusting,” he groans, plucking the sock off and throwing it at Jack’s feet. “And hurry up.” 

They’re the stragglers of the group, still lingering in the locker room while everyone else has already trooped out to the trucks. Niall shoves his feet into his boots, hazarding a glance up at Jack to make sure he isn’t watching when he carefully wedges his coin into the ankle of his sock. It burns cold against his skin all the way to the airfield. 

Within half an hour, he finds himself standing behind Louis as they roar down the strip. Every jolt or tremble in the body of the plane sends a wave of icy fear over him, his heart stopping so regularly he’s almost afraid it’ll give out entirely. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. 

But they’re in the air safely soon enough, and he sits at his bench as usual. Halfway through, Jack chirps “wakey wakey!” in their ears, and Niall sighs and rifles through his things for his benzedrine tablet. He swallows it dry. 

When they finally land at the Wickenby base, it’s late. After their debriefing, they’re informed they have their first week long break starting today, and the relief in the air is so palpable Niall can taste it. 

The first thing he does is troop back to the barracks and take as long a shower as possible, scrubbing every inch of himself and watching the grime sluice off his skin. He rinses his hair. He shaves. He brushes his teeth for a long time. He wears clothes he hasn’t touched since he arrived here - no uniform, just comfortable pants and a warm sweater. He sleeps. 

Or he tries to. 

No matter how tired he is, he can’t seem to close his eyes without feeling restless. He tries to read, but he doesn’t absorb a single thing on the page. 

Telling Harry about slices of his childhood has drudged up bad memories, and they lead him back home. Ireland. Back to the day when he got caught kissing a boy behind his school gymnasium, and the boy panicked and claimed Niall had come on to him forcefully. Niall hated him for it then, but he doesn’t now. He was just angry he beat him to it. 

Even if they weren’t human, even if they weren’t tied down to any religious beliefs - it just wasn’t _done_. There are few enough of them in the first place, his father had told him, and made it clear he regarded Niall as a waste of - well, everything. Because Niall was born with a genetic mutation that meant instead of carrying naturally good luck like every other _clurichaun_ , he had naturally bad luck. He was born on Friday the 13th, for fuck’s sake. It’s why he has to carry around that damned coin - it’s been made to counteract his shit luck, give him back some of his _fae_ attributes, and it works, as long as he’s got it on his person.

And the irony of being both a faery and a “fairy” - that didn’t escape him whatsoever. His “perversion” combined with his genetic defect made it terribly easy for Niall to believe there was something fundamentally wrong with him, that he was - scratch that, _is_ \- just one big fat mistake.

It’s why he enlisted in the first place. It didn’t feel right that good men were marching to their death every day while he, who didn’t deserve the things he had, got to sit pretty at home and read about it. And maybe if he put himself to use, he wouldn’t feel so guilty all the time. 

What he wasn’t expecting was to find himself more at home here than he ever was in Mullingar or Dublin. He wasn’t expecting to find a place for himself among friends, or to feel so grateful every time he saw another sunrise. 

But here he is, he thinks, and closes his eyes. 

_August 09, 1943._

_Royal Air Force Base: Wickenby, England._

They spend their break traipsing between town and base; days shopping in town and writing relatively more cheerful letters home or else playing football with the rest of the squadron, and nights getting drunk in the pub. 

It’s in these days that Niall learns the most about his crew. He’s seen Louis stressed in the air or snappish before bed, but he’s never seen him on the field: zigzagging around like he came out of his mother’s womb dribbling a ball between his feet. He knows Fionn to be shy and generally bookish, but he didn’t know he was such a giggly drunk. And Bressie - once he’s got a couple of pints in him, his accent gets so thick it makes Niall feel like if he closes his eyes he’ll find himself right back in Dublin. And he didn’t know Harry could be so awful at saving his money and not spending it on silly trinkets that catch his eye in town. 

They throw together a football match among the crews on the second day. Luckily, Niall finds himself on the same team as Louis. Unluckily, he is also on the same team as Harry, who, despite being as earnest and good-intentioned as they come, cannot save himself or his team from his great big gangly limbs and complete lack of coordination. 

“You did well,” he tells Harry after they lose the game, patting him on the shoulder. “Really well, Haz.” 

“Really?” Harry says as he turns to him, excitement seeping into his tone like he’s a little kid. His dimples are sharp in his cheeks, flyaway curls glowing auburn in the hot afternoon sun. He smells like grass and heat and sweat. “Louis said I was rubbish.” 

“He’s only joking,” he says, pushing his own sweaty hair back from his forehead with one hand. “You were great.” 

“Thanks, Niall,” Harry says, and his tone is so genuine it makes a sudden surge of protectiveness swell up inside his chest. “Your cheeks are all red,” he continues, and presses the back of his hand against Niall’s cheek as if he can absorb the heat like that. 

“Well, so are yours,” Niall says, and pushes Harry’s hand away.

Someone’s gotten hold of a cameraman, and they take a photograph of the whole group. He and Harry kneel down in the front so they all fit in the frame. Harry throws his arm around Niall’s shoulders, and when the flash comes, Niall’s smiling so hard his cheeks ache with it. 

* * *

Anyways, there’s a lot more drinking than there is football. They’re all young, all at the end of their life. No one’s about to reprimand them enjoying the little time they have. 

Unfortunately, it also means they see a lot more of Taylor, who is always at the White Hart whenever they are, and who always manages to get Harry in a dark corner. Harry emerges more often than not with lipstick smudged on his face, which earns him his share of lewd remarks from the boys.

And every night, more than half of the crew slips out with a different girl. Once or twice, Jack or Harry complain that they’re too exhausted to chase skirts, which more often than not earns them a rude remark from Louis about them being poofs. It’s never aimed at Niall, though, which he makes sure of - there’s a girl here, local. 

Her name’s Lizzie, and she’d batted her eyes at him long enough the second night that he gave in and played the part; he flirted with her and then asked if she might want to go someplace else. Even if it never went past a little necking, it was enough for him to lie to the boys about it, puff it up a little so he’d stay out of suspicion. And anyways, she’s a perfectly nice girl. He feels guilty, but that’s unavoidable. 

* * * 

On the fifth night, Niall has a nightmare. 

He’s flying a plane. He knows without looking that he is alone. It’s dark outside, so black that if he reached out and touched it he might just lose himself in it. 

He’s flying a plane, and he’s flying it into a city on fire. 

The only difference between this hellscape and the ones he sees in real life is that here, in the twisted depths of his subconscious, the flames are ten times as high, licking at the sky without illuminating it, and a hundred times as hot. He’s sweating underneath his layers, half the cold sweat of terror and half the burning feeling of being swallowed by flame. 

He lands his plane amongst rubble and ash in the heart of the city. He gets out of the plane, and his eyes water with smoke, his lungs choke on soot, he’s certain that his flesh is melting off his bones…

He stands in the middle of a very long street. There are piles of dead bodies lining the sidewalks. The acrid tang of burning meat is in the air. 

And there is someone walking down the road towards him. Niall coughs and wheezes and rubs the smoke from his eyes, and he squints at the figure approaching. It’s a boy, barely more than 16, probably. He stops and stands a hundred yards away. His form wavers and blurs with the heat in the air. There is something familiar about the way he holds himself, but Niall can’t see his face clearly. 

But he sees when the boy tips head back to stare at the blank, dark sky. Niall follows his gaze and sees another plane flying over them, and he knows without knowing what is going to happen next. 

Everything explodes. His body is consumed in fire, and he cannot escape the scorching arms of heat that twist over his body, the blinding pain, the guttural scream that tears its way out of his mouth, his lungs filling with white-hot flames that choke him and he can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t 

He wakes up with a gasp. The room is spinning, and a wave of nauseating panic sweeps over him. His heart is going double time, hands shaking, adrenaline coursing through him - 

He stumbles out of bed and barely makes it to the bathroom before emptying the contents of his stomach. The ragged, sickening sounds of his own retching fills the air, along with that putrid smell - 

He washes his hands and rinses out his mouth. Then he washes his face, too, and dries it off with the hem of his shirt. The reflection in the mirror is unforgiving; he looks like he’s been through hell and back. And that’s certainly what it felt like. The dream was too vivid, imprinted on the back of his eyelids every time he closes his eyes - 

The phantom stench of burning flesh fills his nose again, and he barely manages not to throw up for a second time. 

His own blue eyes watch him critically from the glass. His dark hair is a mess, rough and unkempt. He’s gotten leaner since training. Tougher, maybe, traumatized, definitely. The shadows underneath his eyes combined with his haunted expression give that away. 

He stares at himself in the mirror until his eyes start to droop, and then he goes back to bed. He does not dream again. 

* * * 

“...I do not want anyone to read my book carelessly. I have suffered too much grief in setting down these memories. Six years have already passed since my friend went away from me, with his sheep. If I try to describe him here, it is to make sure that I shall not forget him. To forget a friend is sad. Not everyone has had a friend. And if I forget him, I may become like the grown−ups who are no longer interested in anything but figures…”

Operation Crossbow begins tomorrow; they’re going to bomb every last German long-range weapons base they can find, starting with Peenemünde. Tonight is the last peaceful free night they will have for a while. Dread is already building in Niall’s chest with every hour that passes. Makes it hard to focus. 

But for now, they’re here; he’s sitting next to Harry and reading _The Little Prince_ aloud to him. Louis had made fun of Harry for acting like a kid for about twenty minutes before he got bored and scampered off to bother someone else, the twat. 

Harry doesn’t make a sound for most of it, just sits there staring at Niall with round, curious eyes. When they reach the bit about the baobabs, though, Harry lets out a sudden bark of laughter - it splits the quiet so sharply that Niall jumps about a foot in his bed and hits his head on the bunk. 

“What the hell, Harry,” Niall groans. Harry just keeps laughing, silently now, his eyes crinkling up. “What’s so funny?” 

“The - the baobabs,” Harry snickers, words barely coherent. “Imagine, three trees taking up the whole planet, and the poor fellow, he’s got nowhere to _sit-”_ here he erupts into another whole-body peal of silent giggles. 

“What’s so funny about that?” Niall says, cracking a faint smile despite himself as he watches Harry tremble with laughter. “It’s just trees.” 

Harry shakes his head, like Niall’s the one being daft. He waits until Harry’s done giggling to continue. 

“ _J_ _ust that,_ said the fox. _To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world_..." 

“That’s us,” Harry says suddenly, a secretive smile appearing on his mouth as he rolls over to face Niall properly. “The fox and the prince, that’s us.” 

“Are we?” Niall laughs, arching an eyebrow. “Which of us is the fox, then?” 

“You’re the fox,” Harry mumbles, his eyes almost shut. “I had to _tame_ you.” A slow smile spreads across his face, and Niall elbows him hard. Harry just laughs. “Don’t you remember how nervous you were, first time we met?” 

“No,” Niall says, obstinately. 

“You _were_ ,” Harry snorts, turning a little and folding his arms across his chest. “Always kept to yourself, didn’t speak unless spoken to. Always looked like you were ready to crawl out of your own skin.” 

Niall shifts on the bed, face going hot. He clears his throat. “And now?” 

“Well, look at you now.” 

When he glances over at Harry, he’s staring up at him with what he can only describe as - well, never mind. 

It’s embarrassing, and painful, frankly, to have such affection directed towards him when he’s so completely undeserving of it. _What have I done,_ he thinks, _to have someone like this in my life._

_August 18, 1943._

_Peenemünde, Germany._

For the No. 12 RAF Squadron, Operation Hydra begins at 2200. The plan is extremely detailed and just as dangerous. Niall has their orders written neatly in his leather notebook, although the ink is hard to make out in the dark. 

They fly on a full moon for increased accuracy, at less than half the usual altitude. The closest safe base is a thousand kilometers away. They approach from Cape Arkona to Thiessow, check time, then to Rüden, making adjustments, and finally to Peenemünde. Their target: a developing radar that’s supposedly going to strengthen German air defense. The importance of this raid had already been brutally drilled into their heads - if the attack failed, they’d continue for every night afterwards until it worked, regardless of casualties. 

Their plane heads off the first wave. The white parachute flares guide them down over the buildings, target indicators glowing a hellish red in the dark - 

Harry drops a bomb, then another, and another, and Niall loses count. The explosions rattle the frame of the Halifax, rattle through his bones, through his heart. The worst could happen at any second, any second now he could be dead - 

* * * 

“We only have preliminary reports, so we can’t be sure,” the interviewer says after the debriefing, smiling at them. “But it looks like it was a successful run, lads. Well done.” 

He shakes Liam’s hand. 

They find out later that they’d been lied to during the initial briefing. It wasn’t a radar they were looking to destroy. It was research personnel and enslaved workers’ quarters. The primary objective was to take as many lives as possible, and the secondary objective was to ruin the facility beyond repair. 

23 of 45 labor camp shelters were destroyed. 600 workers’ lives were taken. The chief engineer of rocket motors and the chief engineer of the rocket factory were killed. The German _luftwaffe_ chief of staff, after the defeat, shot himself in the head. 

Harry doesn’t speak for a day. 

_October 10th, 1943._

_Royal Air Force Base: Wickenby, England._

“ _If I broke your heart last night,”_ Harry sings quietly, reaching out to turn the volume up on the scratchy sounding communal radio. _“It’s because I love you most of all.”_

It’s nighttime. They’re both sat on Niall’s bunk - well, Harry’s sprawled out and taking up most of the room, but nevertheless, they’re _sharing_ , according to him - and the rest of the barrack is empty. Most of the other crew are either having dinner in the mess hall or have taken the road down to Lissington to get drunk, but he and Harry chose to stay in. 

_A couple of old souls, you and me,_ Harry had said jokingly, nudging Niall’s elbow with his own. 

_“You always hurt the one you love, the one you shouldn’t hurt at all,”_ Harry continues, nodding his head along. 

“You’ve got a great voice, you know that?” Niall says offhandedly, flipping the page of his book. He leans up against the post at the foot of the bed, and Harry’s mirroring him at the head of it. One of his legs is flopped over Niall’s. 

“Why, thank you,” Harry grins, just as the chorus finishes. “My mother always told me so.” 

Niall snorts, and jabs him in the thigh with a toe. “Reminds me of Liam in the showers.” 

“Oh, yeah.”

“So _loud_. It’s always Sinatra, too.” 

Harry hums thoughtfully, and switches the channel, scanning till he lands on one broadcasting Frank’s low, honeyed voice. 

_A peaceful sky, there are such things...a rainbow high, where heaven sings…_

A curious, half-miserable little smile appears suddenly on Harry’s face, his gaze lost somewhere over Niall’s shoulder. He’s quiet for a long while, then says, “D’you think it’ll ever end?” 

Niall closes his book. “What?” 

“You know,” Harry says, eyes still unfocused. The smile slips slowly from his mouth. “All of it.” 

“It has to.” He clears his throat. “It will. We already have the advantage, Haz, you heard Lieutenant-” 

“That’s bullshit,” Harry says quickly, gaze shifting to meet his. “That’s just a load of bullshit they come up with so we don’t get all depressed and mopey.” 

“Clearly it hasn’t worked.” 

Harry snorts, shakes his head, but there’s still no humor in his expression. “I just can’t stand it. Every day, we put our lives on the line, and we’re...we’re just a drop in the ocean.” 

“Someone has to do it.” 

“I hate it, Niall,” Harry says, like he hadn’t spoken at all, and his voice has taken on a more fragile quality, like it’s a sacred confession. “I don’t like killing people.” 

And maybe it is a confession. You’re not supposed to say things like that. Not now, not here. 

“I don’t like it either, but you’ve got to understand that these are bad _people-”_

“These are _civilians,_ ” Harry hisses, eyes flashing. “Yeah, we blow up Nazi bases, but we’re also using entire _cities_ as pawns. They’re people just like us. Doesn’t matter if they speak a different language, or-” 

“They’re complicit if you ask me. Christ, Harry, haven’t you heard what they’re _doing_ to people out there?” 

“They’re innocent.” 

“They _enable_ this fucking war.”

“They’re _human!_ Some of them are _children_ , Niall, how can you-” Harry’s voice gives out sharply here, and he slumps against the back of the bunk, distraught. 

Niall thinks about the nightmare he had all those months ago. The fire, the city, the boy. 

“I know,” he says, and means it. “I’m sorry. I know.” 

It hits him for the first time how much these operations have taken a toll on Harry, more than the rest of them. It goes beyond the terror, the stress, the exhaustion; Harry’s guilty. He’s the one that drops the bombs. He believes he wears the blood of thousands on his hands alone, even though all of them take their part in it. 

And maybe...maybe he’s scared Harry’s right. Because going to war, hard as it is, can be justified if you believe it’s justified. Taking lives is okay as long as you think it’s for the right cause. Peering into this hellscape through the newspapers in Dublin, he’d thought it was black and white. The Allies and the Nazis. The good and the evil. The right and the wrong. And he’s realized, obviously, that things are never that simple, that they _are_ using thousands of lives as chess pieces in this fucked up game, but when it comes down to it, he knows he’s doing the right thing. 

Things get blurrier from Harry’s point of view, who was drafted, dragged into this bloodbath by reason of circumstance. 

Niall thinks, not for the first time, that Harry wasn’t made for war. It’s not that he’s weak, or cowardly, it’s that he’s sensitive. It’s that it’s too easy for him to overthink things. Too easy for him to get lost in that pretty head of his- 

He pauses. Digs his fingernails into the meat of his thigh where his hand rests. 

_“So have a little faith,”_ Frank warbles on, “ _a_ _nd trust in what tomorrow-”_

“Turn it off,” Niall says, a rougher edge to his voice than he’d like. “Please?” 

Harry switches the radio off, eyes still focused on Niall’s, and all of a sudden the air is stiflingly thick. It doesn’t help that Harry’s a naturally tactile person, that he can sit here in the same bed as Niall with their legs tangled up and not bat an eye at it. 

Harry’s leg shifts against his, warm through the layer of denim; pushing a toe against Niall’s calf. “What are you thinking about?” His voice is soft, rough in the silent room, and Niall wishes he hadn’t asked for the radio to be turned off. 

“Nothing.”

Harry’s eyes are unbearably steady. Niall feels as if he’s staring directly into the blinding beam of a lighthouse. For a cold instant, he thinks Harry must know, that he must be able to read his thoughts, rifle through his mind like a book and know exactly what he is, the way he feels. 

Harry blinks, and the moment is gone. “Niall-” 

Louis stumbles into the room, and Niall flinches away from Harry’s touch so fast it’s like he’s been burned. 

“Why, hello, lovebirds,” Louis slurs, clinging to the door frame with a lopsided grin. 

Niall gets to his feet, already reaching out to prop him up in case he collapses in a drunken heap in the middle of the corridor. But Liam’s there, just behind, a harried look on his face. He begins hustling Louis towards their set of bunks at the far end of the room, throwing Niall an apologetic glance. 

“Sorry about this one, he got thrown out of the pub,” he grunts as he forces Louis to sit down on the bed, and then swings Louis’ spindly legs onto the bed himself. Louis passes out almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, the sharp angles of his face going lax and peaceful. “Like a baby,” Liam observes fondly, patting Louis’ cheek twice. The volume of Louis’ snores rises. 

“Gonna hit the sack,” Harry mumbles, and rolls out of Niall’s bunk. He watches as Harry pulls the sheets all the way up to his nose, his eyes steady as they meet his. He feels like they’re agreeing on something, though he doesn’t know what.

“G’night, Niall.” 

“Night, H.” 

_December 18, 1943._

_Royal Air Force Base: Wickenby, England._

The Squadronaires have come to visit Wickenby. There’s a dance arranged for the night, and the barracks are buzzing with excitement. Men with dolled up members of the WAAF on their arms are already filtering into the mess, which has been cleared out to create a makeshift dance hall. The band is warming up; Niall can hear the muffled sound of music all the way over here. 

He and Liam are in the restroom, checking themselves in the mirror. Well - Liam is. Niall’s just waiting for him to be finished with his hair. 

“Who died?” 

Niall snaps to attention. “Beg your pardon?” 

“You don’t seem very excited,” Liam observes, adjusting his dress pants. “Nervous?” 

Niall snorts and leans against the counter. The sharp edge digs into his hip. “What’s there to be nervous for?” 

“Impressing the ladies,” Liam answers immediately, sounding almost offended. 

“I’ll leave that to you, don’t worry.” 

“ _Ni_ _all,_ ” Liam says, in that horribly endearing way he does when he’s frustrated with him. “Don’t tell me you haven’t got your eye on _any_ of them?” 

He shrugs and rifles through the usual excuses. “We’re in the middle of a war. I could be dead tomorrow.” 

“Loosen up a little, then,” Liam says, glancing at him in the mirror. The fluorescent lights wash the color out of his skin. “You don’t always have to play for keeps. Like you said, we could be dead tomorrow.” 

Everyone’s dressed to the nines. The Squadronaires play wonderfully, and the music is overlayed with the sounds of bright laughter and loud talk. Girls flutter past him where he sits at the bar, their hair beginning to come undone with all the dancing and their cheeks flushed crimson. But even after hours pass, Niall feels stiff and uncomfortable in his uniform, and here comes Harry, whose fits him so well he puts all the other men in the room to shame. 

Louis lets out a playful whistle beside him as Harry approaches the bar. “Look at you on the dance floor. Didn’t know you had it in ya.” 

“Oh, sure,” Harry shrugs, dimples deep in his cheeks. He’s been dancing with Taylor all night. His face is practically glowing, but maybe that’s from the sweat. His hair curls over his forehead, coming free from all the gel he’d packed in it a few hours earlier, and he’s never looked so breathtaking, Niall thinks. 

“You should come dance,” Harry says to him, eyes sparkling. “Taylor’s got a friend - her name’s Barbara, she’s quite the-”

“Thanks, but I’m alright,” Niall says, a wry smile crossing his face. “You know I don’t like dancing.”

“ _Please?”_ Harry begs. His puppy-dog eyes are stronger than ever, but Niall won’t give in. 

“Sorry.” 

The music fades into a slow waltz, and the room quiets slightly as the men shuffle to find their partners. Harry glances back at Taylor, who’s waving him over, and then back to Niall. His face grows determined, and he knows he’s done for. 

“Well, suck it up,” Harry says primly, and takes him by the wrist. 

“Harry-” 

“Don’t make a _scene!_ ” Harry hisses, so Niall has no choice but to follow him out into the middle of the room. 

His skin burns where Harry’s hand is touching it, and it burns even after he lets go of his arm. 

“Barbara, this is Niall, the friend I’ve been telling you about - Niall, this is Barbara.” 

Christ, she _is_ beautiful. Her long, dark hair is pinned up, but strands of it are escaping to frame her face. Her eyes are a striking blue, her lipstick as red as blood. Maybe in a different universe he loses his breath when he looks at her the way he does when he looks at Harry. As it is, though…

He extends a hand and wears his most charming smile. He can feel the heat of Harry’s eyes on him as he shakes Barbara’s hand. 

He finds himself with his hands on Barbara’s waist, swaying slowly to the music. The material of her dress is smooth underneath his palm. 

_“Your green eyes with their soft lights,”_ Miller croons onstage, gripping the mic stand, _“your eyes that promise sweet nights.”_

Harry and Taylor sway together not far away, and Niall finds his eyes drawn to them time and time again, no matter how much he tries to focus on what Barbara’s saying. The sight of them - Harry and Taylor - is arresting, is terrible. They fit so well together, look so elegant; their faces glow with laughter underneath the yellow lights. 

_“So deep that in my searching for happiness...I fear that they will ever haunt me, all through my life they’ll taunt me…”_

“So Harry tells me you’re a navigator _,_ ” Barbara says, her voice barely heard over the strings. “Is it very difficult?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles, gaze flickering back to hers. “It is.” He doesn’t see the line her mouth forms, the furrow between her brows. He’s far too busy trying to catch another glimpse of Harry. 

It’s almost masochistic, how he studies them. He’s been doing it all night, involuntarily, from afar, but it’s worse up close. Every time Harry flashes that grin at her, his chest feels like it’s caving in. When she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him that much closer, his skin burns.

_“But will they ever want me?”_

“Are you jealous?” Barbara asks suddenly, quietly, and he rips his gaze away from Harry’s grinning face. 

“Sorry?” 

A knowing smile crosses her lips. “You keep staring at them,” she says, and Niall doesn’t have to glance over to know who she’s talking about. “I’m not an idiot, you know.” 

A flicker of embarrassment at being caught burns in his chest. _You’ve got it half right,_ he thinks. “Jealous? Jealous of who?” 

“It’s alright if you are,” Barbara continues, as if he’d never spoken. “Taylor’s certainly an attractive girl.” 

_Give it up._

“Not my type,” he huffs out on the heels of a smile, and her eyebrows arch delicately. 

“Then what is?” 

Niall laughs wryly. “You could say I’ve got a thing for brunettes, maybe.” 

“That’s funny,” Barbara says, and doesn’t point out the color of her own hair. They move in a circle, so that Harry and Niall are facing away from each other. Barbara’s gaze slides somewhere past his shoulder. “I’ve got a thing for blondes.” 

He spends only one other dance with her, and when it’s over, he excuses himself politely and thanks her for the evening. She smiles and pokes a little fun at him for turning in so early, calls him an old man. Maybe she’s disappointed. He’s grateful, either way, that she doesn’t pry. 

The night air is cold and sharp on his face as he heads out of the mess hall, hands stuffed into his suit pockets. He crunches through the frost-covered grass. He’s alone out here, save for the full moon overhead. The muffled notes of _White Christmas_ fade behind him - but then there’s a surge of noise, as the door opens, and when he turns around, he sees a familiar shadow cutting his way through the lawn towards him. 

“Harry?” he calls, thoroughly confused - though he can’t suppress the little sigh of relief, deep between his ribs. Harry breaks into a jog to catch up to him. 

“Niall,” he pants when he reaches him, slowing to a stop. His eyes are bright, shining in the moonlight. “Hey.” 

“...what are you doing?” 

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” Harry says, shrugging, still a little out of breath. “I’m turning in, like you.” 

“This early?” 

“What about you?” 

Niall shakes his head, and turns to continue walking. “Well, I hope you didn’t leave the little lady waitin’ on ya.” 

“The little-” Harry hurries up to keep pace with him, his long legs easily matching Niall’s brisk pace. “The _little lady_ is just fine, thanks.” 

“Reckoned you’d have stayed till morning, you were having so much fun,” Niall comments, keeping his eyes on the ground. He knows Harry can hear the mocking tone coming through in his voice. 

He sees Harry shrug out of the corner of his eye. “I saw you leaving. Just didn't want you to be alone.” 

His heart does a strange thing, and it leaves Niall a little winded, a little embarrassed. “You didn’t have to escort me back to the building, for Christ’s sake, I can find my own way.” 

“I know,” Harry shrugs again, “but I…” he trails off, and when Niall glances over, he’s chewing his lower lip raw. “I wanted to,” he decides, and Niall swivels his gaze back around quickly before Harry catches him staring. 

“How about a dance?” Harry suggests suddenly, swiveling so that he’s walking backwards, a foot or two ahead of Niall. 

Niall stops in his tracks and snorts unattractively. “Mate, I don’t know what you think you just attended, but I’ll give you three guesses.” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “C’mon. I’m doing you a favor here, walking you back-” 

“I’m not a dame!” 

“-the least you could do is give me this.” Harry holds out a hand, eyes bright and unreadable. “Come on, you barely danced with Barbara. I don’t think you’ve had your fill.” 

“I can assure you I have.” 

“What if I don’t trust your word?” Harry counters, eyebrows rising ever-higher in a slightly crazed expression. When Niall doesn’t respond, he sighs bodily, shoulders drooping with it. “Ni- _all._ ” 

And Niall can’t resist him when he says his name like that, all frustrated and endeared and annoyed - so he takes Harry’s outstretched hand, and they dance to the beat of the now-faraway music. 

He barely knows what he’s doing, but he manages to keep up with Harry as he laughs loudly and spins him around, both of them stumbling over their feet and into each other, hands brushing and faces aching with the force of their smiles. 

For a moment, they’re not men lost in the middle of a brutal war. For a moment, they are nothing but themselves. They don’t pretend to be brave. They’re shivering with the cold, they’re filling the air with laughter, they’re like two ships crashing together in the night. 

Niall tries to memorize the moment and finds he can’t, because Harry is jabbing him in the gut and laughing that horribly unattractive, beautiful laugh of his, and he’s distracted. It slips through his fingers like sand. Years later, he will replay those minutes over and over in his head until the details vanish and he cannot be sure whether he imagined the brush of Harry’s knuckles against his own or not, or if they ever really danced. 

They change out of their dress uniforms back to back in the aisle between their bunks. It’s dead quiet. 

“God, you stink,” Niall says as he folds his trousers neatly. “At least rinse off?” 

“Piss off. As if you’re any better.” 

“God help Fionn. That poor boy, suffering through your stench wafting up to him, night after night after night-” 

Something sharp pokes him in between the shoulder blades, and he yelps - Harry’s pointy fucking elbow, of course. 

“Don’t start what you can’t finish, Styles,” he warns, and is rewarded with the sound of Harry’s high-pitched, hysterical laughter. It brings a dopey smile to his face, and he’s glad Harry can’t see him. 

“Hey, where’s my shirt?” Harry demands, and suddenly he’s in Niall’s space, sticking his hands into Niall’s things and rummaging around. 

“For fuck’s sake, Harry! I fixed all that just last night, and now you’ve fucking-” 

“Uh huh,” Harry says, producing - well, yeah, it is his shirt, but that’s besides the point, it was an _accident_ \- from Niall’s bag. “Thief.” 

“Bastard,” Niall grumbles, but makes no move to rearrange his clothes. Harry’s still standing there, their almost-bare bodies almost-touching, and every one of Niall’s nerve endings is on fire. He’s too _close_. He can see the little specks of gold in Harry’s eyes, and every little hair in his brows, and he knows if he looks down he’ll see the sweat still shining on Harry’s skin. It’s too much. 

He steps away with an awkward half-laugh. The realization that Harry can probably see him blushing clear down to his chest causes him to redden further, if it’s even possible - hopefully Harry’ll chalk it up to drink, and the stifling heat, instead of...anything else. 

Harry goes back to dressing, and so does he. They don’t speak again for a while, though Niall swears he can feel eyes burning on his back. 

Harry is the one to turn out the light, eventually, both aware they’ll be awakened rudely in a few hours by the crew’s ruckus as they stumble home. Niall will eagerly take any bit of sleep he can get, though. 

Harry bumps his head against the upper bunk in the dark, and lets out a colorful string of swear words. Niall snorts. 

“Shut _up_ ,” comes Harry’s voice, infused with laughter nonetheless, and then a minute later, softer, “good night, Niall.” 

“Good night, Harry.” 

Niall stares into the dark for a long time, trying to make out Harry through the shadow, half-afraid he’ll find him looking back. He falls asleep before he ever does. 

_December 25th, 1943._

_Royal Air Force Base: Wickenby, England._

Anne sends him a large batch of thumbprint cookies for Christmas, each with a generous dollop of crimson-colored raspberry jam in the middle. Niall writes her a warm thank-you letter with the crumbs still sticking to his fingertips, sated and content for once. 

There’s a little Christmas tree in the mess hall, decorated sparsely with shining red ornaments. They spend the day passing around sweets sent from home, playing card games (all of which Niall wins, and is not smug about, no matter what Louis says). 

It’s just after sunset when he and Harry end up leaning against the barrack wall, shivering in the damp grass and pleasantly buzzed. 

“Gimme a light, would you?” Harry asks, leaning over. 

Niall fishes his lighter out of his pocket. It’s the one Louis gave him for his birthday this year. Harry had gotten ahold of it at some point or the other while drunk, and scratched words deep into the metal. 

_Harry,_ it reads on one side. _Was here,_ the other declares. 

Niall runs his thumb over the ridges of the letters now as he holds the flame up to Harry’s cigarette. 

“Cheers.” 

They sit in silence, Harry thumping his heel against the wall repetitively as he stares off into the distance, the cherry tip of his cig glowing. 

“So, Taylor,” Niall begins, fixing his eyes on the sky casually. “Things getting serious there?” 

Harry shrugs. “Dunno.” 

“No?” Niall asks, arching an eyebrow. “I could see you two in five years. White picket fence, two and a half kids, a shaggy dog named Rover.” 

Harry cracks a smile at that. “Come and live next door, won’t you? We’ll have you over every Sunday evening for dinner and bridge.” Niall laughs, pretending like that doesn’t make his heart lurch uncomfortably in his chest. “Yeah. Sure,” Harry mutters, still smiling. 

What scares him is that he’d do it. He’d live next door to Harry and Taylor till the day he died if it meant he’d get to be near him. 

They fall into silence again, until Harry asks, “Niall, you know when we play cards, and you always win?” 

Niall glances at him sidelong. 

“Yeah, what about it? You’re bitter?” 

“No,” Harry says obstinately, “I’m _competitive_ , not a sore loser.” He closes his eyes and blows smoke into the air before continuing. “When I was younger, my mum used to tell me these stories.” 

“Yeah? Like what?” 

Harry’s flicks ash into the mud. “Made up stuff, I guess. About these people - faeries.” 

Niall stiffens, and Harry must notice, because he glances over quickly. 

“No, not - not _fairies,_ like - it’s spelled different, _f-a-e-”_

“Oh, I get it,” Niall says, and shifts uncomfortably. 

“Yeah.” Harry lets his head fall back against the wall, half of his face cast in shadow. “She said there’s all sorts. There’s one, I forget the names now, mind you - there’s one that’s a seal in the ocean but a human on land. And there’s a giant black cat that haunts people three days before they die.” 

Niall fights the urge to correct him; he got the _cat sìth_ and the _cù sìth_ mixed up. Though he admits they do have similar characteristics, so it’s pretty easy to -

“And there’s one with unfailing luck. Like leprechauns.” 

Niall clears his throat loudly. “No way.” 

“ _Yes_ way,” Harry says, lifting his head to look at him. “Leprechauns are little fellas, but the other kind, I remember, they look just like you and me.” 

He pauses suddenly, and all Niall can hear is the sound of their own breathing and the blood rushing in his ears. There’s no way he could know. There’s no fucking way. What the fuck are the odds of that? 

“Sometimes,” Harry mumbles, his voice lower, eyes boring into Niall’s, “sometimes I think…” 

The silent four seconds that subsequently pass are the longest of Niall’s godforsaken life. 

“Well, never mind,” Harry says, and grinds his cig into the ground. “It’s silly anyways.” 

“Sounds like it,” Niall mutters, and Harry just shoots him a look. 

_December 31, 1943._

_Royal Air Force Base: Wickenby, England._

“...Then she looks up at me, and says, ‘I’m meant to put it in my mouth?’ So I say, “yes, y’know. The French way.’ So she puts it in...and she starts humming the bloody Marseillaise!”

The table bursts into laughter, save for himself and Fionn, who’s already half-asleep and looks bored out of his mind. 

“Hey,” Bressie says, nudging Harry with one big elbow, his eyebrows high. “Does Taylor do it the French way?” 

Harry’s cheeks bloom red, and Niall cracks his knuckles, eyes down. 

He ends up drinking more than he usually does. The next morning, bleary eyed and grumpy, there are only a few flashes here and there that he has working memory of. 

He remembers staring at Harry. A lot. He hopes no one noticed. He remembers that Harry had kissed Taylor when the clock struck midnight, and Niall leaned to kiss Barbara and caught the corner of her mouth. Barbara had laughed at him softly afterwards, her eyes shining. It wasn’t an unkind laugh, he understood that. It felt like they were agreeing on something. 

It was a good night. He was getting distracted at some point, lost in thought, when Harry leaned over quick as anything and blew hard into Niall’s ear just to shock him out of his trance. It worked - Niall punched him sharply in the shoulder in retaliation, and Harry just laughed, boyish and loud. It felt otherworldly to be alive, in that instant. Harry looked at him and smiled easy, open, beautiful, and everything was worth it all at once. His troubles melted away with the alcohol. It was good.

And when Harry looked him straight in the eyes, later, before they parted ways, smile fading, and his gaze dropped fast to Niall’s mouth and came back up even faster - there was a hollow ache in his chest, filling him with an emotion he didn’t have the vocabulary to describe. It was immense. It hurt. It was like hunger but worse, it was like lust but purer, it was _want_ in the most raw form he knew. Want _,_ and the bitter knowledge that he could not _have_. 

It’s a feeling that sticks with him for a very long time afterwards, partially because the emotion was so strong, partially because he feels it again every time Harry looks at him. 

_January 03, 1944._

_Royal Air Force Base: Wickenby, England._

Niall wakes up to the sound of whimpering. 

He glances at the window, disoriented; there’s strong moonlight spilling through, which means he won’t need to be up for at least another hour, depending. 

He’s a light sleeper, something that had never really bothered him until he joined the Air Force. Almost every other night someone wakes up with a nightmare, sometimes screaming. He’s done the same. You don’t say anything, then or the morning after, in respect of the unspoken agreement of silence. 

But he sits up in bed this time, heart sinking in his chest, because it’s _Harry_. He can hear him thrashing around under his sheets, his breathing coming quick and shallow, these pained, awful little cries escaping his throat- 

Harry gasps into consciousness and sits up so fast he cracks his head into the bottom of the bunk above him. Niall hisses in surprise. He can only see the whites of Harry’s eyes, focused on him through the dark. 

Fionn, who sleeps like a rock, doesn’t do so much as snore a fraction louder. 

“Niall?” Harry’s voice is ragged. “‘S’that you?” 

“Yeah, it’s me.” 

“Christ. Did I wake you? I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay. Happens to everyone.” 

“That was the worst one I’ve had,” he admits suddenly, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. “ _Fuck_.” 

Niall hears the bed shake a little, and that’s when he realizes Harry’s crying. 

At a loss for words, he goes over, and he pulls him into a hug, kneeling awkwardly on the floor. Harry goes willingly, wrapping his arms around Niall’s torso and crying into his neck. His tears smear over Niall’s skin. 

A minute passes. Harry breaks the silence first. 

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this, Niall,” he whispers into his shoulder, a fragile, terrible secret. “I wasn’t _made_ for this kind of stuff, I-” 

“It’s okay. It’s okay, Harry, you’ll be alright.” 

“Niall,” Harry says, but doesn’t say anything after. 

Niall’s eyes have adjusted to the dark, and he can see every inch of Harry’s tear-streaked face as he pulls away, cast in ghostly moonlight. 

“Get some rest,” he tells him. “Big week ahead.” 

Harry sniffles, eyes red-rimmed and wide. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” He cracks a tentative smile. “Actually - do. Had to go and get your snot all over me, didn’t you. Oaf.” 

Harry laughs wetly, his face brightening for a moment, eyes crinkling up in that smile of his - but it fades. 

“Still,” he murmurs, gaze drifting down somewhere around Niall’s elbows almost unseeingly. He’s clearly out of it. Niall wonders if he’ll even remember any of this in the morning. 

He pushes at Harry’s chest until he gets the message and lays back down in his bed. He lets Niall tuck him back in like a child, staring hazily at him all the while, but just before Niall starts to pull away, he grabs his hand. 

“Thank you,” Harry whispers. 

Niall returns to his bed with his mind spinning. 

Somewhere in the middle of their training - about a year ago now - some of the crew had a conversation that’s stuck with him ever since. 

They were having dinner in the mess hall, and Harry was telling them about how his hands were shaking so bad during a test flight that he nearly botched the drop. 

_I’m not as brave as you lot,_ Harry sighed, stirring his tea aimlessly. Louis, beside him, had snorted. 

_Brave? None of us are brave,_ Louis said. _Mate, at this point, I’m shaking in my boots every time I step outside._

That had gotten a laugh out of all of them, at least. 

_No, seriously. It’s terrifying, isn’t it?_

They nodded, levity disappearing. Harry stared down at his mug. 

_Listen, Harry. Men who tell you their not afraid of the war - they’ve got a screw or six loose. All of us are literally shitting bricks the whole time we’re up there._

Bressie, who has chronic bowel issues, nodded and looked morose. 

_Being scared doesn’t make you any less brave. You still do it, right? You still get on that plane every day and do your job. That’s all that’s asked of you._

_Press on regardless,_ Jack toasted with a generous amount of sarcasm in his tone, his eyebrows twitching upwards. They raised their glasses and echoed him. Harry’s fingers were tight around his glass, and they left sweaty prints when he put it back down. 

_Press on regardless._

_January 28, 1944._

_Lissington, England._

Niall whistles to himself, lost in thought as he wanders aimlessly through the sweet shop they’d found in a cozy corner of Lissington. Harry’s gone out of his mind, tugging Niall from aisle to aisle and muttering to himself trying to figure out how much his rations will cover, how much he can buy. 

“You can always ask your mum to send for some,” he’d pointed out while Harry drooled over a box of chocolate creams. The hand-knitted jumper Harry was wearing hung loosely on him, exposing his collarbone when he leaned over to check the price. Niall let his gaze linger because there was no one to see. 

“That requires patience,” Harry replied distractedly, moving on to a jar of liquorice. “Of which I have none.” 

Niall had left him to his devices about five minutes ago, choosing to roam on his own. It’s a nice place, if old, and peeling apart at the edges. It’s colorful and distracting enough that it lets him get out of his own head, which is always a good thing. 

There’s a man - boy, really, can’t be much older than Niall himself - stocking the shelves in the last aisle over. He’s tall, lean. His hair curls over his forehead in a way that reminds Niall of Harry. Half out of curiosity and half out of boredom, he sidles up to him and pretends to look at the sweets, chewing on his lower lip. 

“Sorry, am I in your way?” the boy asks him suddenly, stepping to the side, but Niall shakes his head quickly. 

“No, you’re alright.” 

The boy blinks at him for a second, so Niall sticks out his hand. 

“I’m Niall.” 

“Shawn,” he says, shaking Niall’s outstretched hand. “I’m guessing you’re with the RAF?” 

“You got it,” Niall says, wearing his most charming smile. “And I’m guessing you’re too young for it.” 

“Only barely,” Shawn says, rolling his eyes. “But I suppose it’s for the best.” He shifts his weight to one hip, head tilted to the side. “So...you’re on leave?” 

His gaze is already heavy, appraising. Niall swallows hard, his cheeks growing warm. 

“Yeah. We-” 

“Niall?”

Niall and Shawn turn to see Harry at the end of the aisle, clutching an assortment of chocolates. His eyes flick between the two of them twice, coming to rest on Niall. 

“Harry, this is Shawn.”

Harry comes over and shakes Shawn’s hand politely, his mouth in a tight line. “Nice to meet you.” 

“Pleasure’s mine,” Shawn says, smiling with all of his teeth, and Harry stares sidelong at Niall.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Who’s your crew’s captain?” 

“Oh, I’m not - I’m not with the Force.” 

Harry’s mouth twists in a half-smile, glancing over at Niall and then back to Shawn. “Why not? You look old enough to enlist.” 

Niall bites the inside of his cheek and doesn’t say anything. Shawn goes faintly pink. 

“I’m not, actually. Not quite.” 

Harry shrugs with one shoulder, his gaze piercing as he stares him down. “It’s not difficult to just bump the number up, mate. Loads of guys do it.” 

“Uh,” Shawn says. He glances at Niall. “My father owns this shop, but he’s ill. He needs help running it.” 

“Mum’s not in the picture?” Harry asks, voice a little too faux-casual, and Niall fights the urge to pinch him. 

“She died when I was young.” 

“Oh,” Harry says, shifting his armful of candy around. “Sorry to hear that.” That bit, at least, sounds genuine. He clears his throat. “There’s no one at the register. Could you…” 

“Yeah, I’ll ring you up,” Shawn says quickly, and leads them back to the front of the store. 

Niall glares at Harry as they walk. Harry notices and looks surprised. 

“What’re you looking at me like that for?” 

Niall rolls his eyes. 

He invites Shawn to meet them at the pub that night as they’re paying for their stuff, while Harry glares a hole in the side of his head and steps on his foot with increasing and painful pressure. 

He confronts him about it once they’re out in the street again, a brisk wind sending a chill down his spine. There’s fewer people out on the streets now, the watery blue haze of dusk settling over the town. “What’d you have to act like that for?” 

Harry eyes him innocently. “Act like what?” 

“You were being a prick to him for no reason, and you know it.” 

Harry mumbles something under his breath. 

“Sorry? I didn’t catch that.” 

“Nothing,” Harry sniffs. 

Niall chews on the inside of his cheek, frowning. “Okay, I get it. It’s because you think he’s...you know.” 

Harry just frowns at him - until his mouth parts, and he inhales sharply in understanding. 

_“No,”_ he says firmly, quietly. “If he was, it’s not any of my business. I don’t - I don’t care, if he is.” 

Niall glances at him through the corner of his eye. “Fine. I don’t know what your issue is with him, then, but try to be nice to him tonight. I get the feeling that he doesn’t have a load of mates around here, with everybody in the war.” 

“Sure. We’ll set aside a childrens table just for him.” 

“ _Harry_.” 

So Shawn joins them for drinks, and he’s charming, and he makes the crew laugh, and Niall’s already captivated. Never mind the fact that Harry is being a sour-puss and refusing to speak to him, choosing instead to glare bitterly at his drink. There’s a gorgeous boy sitting next to him who keeps brushing his arm maybe-purposefully against Niall’s. He’s practically high with it. 

And disappearing with Shawn when nobody’s looking, maybe crowding him into some dark alleyway, that’s not out of the question. Because Shawn is very clearly flirting with him, and because everyone’s too drunk to notice, and because he wants to, goddammit. 

Niall turns closer to Shawn, leans over, and is two fucking seconds away from asking him if he wants to step out for a minute when Harry falls out of his chair. 

“Harry!” Louis slurs, squinting down at him. “What’re you doing down there?” 

Harry blinks at him, and then at Niall, who stares back. 

“Fine, alright,” he groans, and brings Harry to his feet. Shawn watches on, looking hesitant. 

“I’m gonna have to take him back to the base, I’m sorry, mate.” 

Shawn just waves him off, an easy, gracious smile on his face. Niall’s gut aches with want. 

“No, it’s okay, believe me. I get it.” 

_Get it?_

“Sorry,” Niall says again, and means it - and then Harry leans on him too heavily, and he narrowly avoids collapsing under his weight. “Jesus, Haz. How much did you drink?” 

Harry mumbles nonsense into his ear and doesn’t help much as Niall half-supports, half-drags him out of the bar. 

The night chill is bitter and freezing, slicing sharp against every bit of exposed skin. Harry’s cheeks turn bright red within a minute. They stumble homewards, Niall’s arm wrapped tight around Harry’s waist, and Harry’s arm hanging loosely over his shoulders. 

Every time Harry slips, or trips, or accidentally breathes into his face with his breath reeking of alcohol, the knot in Niall’s gut winds tighter. This is a far cry from how he thought he’d be spending his night. Christ, it’s been a long time since he had a hand on his dick that wasn’t his own, and he could tell Shawn would’ve wanted it, he _knew-_

But Harry had to muck it up. Harry, who he can’t ever fucking have. 

“Niall,” Harry says, voice childlike, “Hang on a minute, I’ve got to tie my shoes.” 

“Your shoes are fine.” 

Without waiting for a response, Harry slips from Niall’s grip and collapses to the cold pavement, hands fumbling for his laces. 

Niall exhales loudly, breath clouding in the air. He waits, hands on his hips, surveying the street. They’re alone. The only residual noise comes from the bar they left. He just wants to get home, out of the cold, is that too much to bloody ask.

He glances down. Harry’s only just begun to cross his laces. 

“For God’s sake, Harry,” he snaps, and gets down on his knees. He ties Harry’s laces for him deftly, yanking them tight so sharply that Harry actually yelps. He feels a tinge of regret, but he doesn’t apologize. Harry’s blackout drunk. He won’t remember a single second of this in the morning. 

He gets to his feet and resumes walking down the street without waiting for him. He listens to Harry struggle to rise. 

“You’re being mean,” Harry whines, shuffling behind him at last. He pauses, seeming to rifle through his vocabulary. 

“You’re being a _prick_.” 

“Put a cork in it, would you?” Niall bites out, voice hard. 

“What the fuck are you so mad about?” Harry demands suddenly, tone losing all petulance, and he shoves Niall from behind. _Hard._

Niall, caught completely off-guard, nearly face-plants into a streetlamp. 

When he turns around, slowly, breathlessly, furious, Harry is standing there, red-faced and breathing as heavy as a bull. His eyes glitter under the moonlight. There’s an unfamiliar scowl twisting his features. 

“Did you just _push_ me?” Niall barks. 

Harry smirks humorlessly, like Niall hadn’t even opened his mouth. “Blue balls, Horan?” 

Niall chokes on air.

_“What?”_

“You just wanted to get your cock sucked by that fucking _fairy_ ,” Harry sneers, chest heaving, and Niall feels like he’s been pistol-whipped. 

Instinctively, his eyes sweep the length of the street. Still no one. 

“You’d better watch your fucking mouth,” he warns, voice low. His face is growing hot. _Where the fuck did this come from?_ “You don’t know what the _fuck_ you’re talking about.” 

“Don’t I?” Harry laughs. It’s a horrible noise. “Darling, _everyone_ could see the way you were-” 

That’s all it takes.

Niall rushes him, fists his hands in the lapels of his coat and shoves Harry against the nearest building, vision flickering red. The word _everyone_ clangs around his skull, terror and fury weighing down his limbs.

Harry looks like Christmas came early. His eyes light up, mouth curving in a dangerous smile. “What’re you gonna do, tough guy? You gonna hit me? Go on, do it. Fucking _do_ it,” he spits, eyes flickering between Niall’s. 

Niall almost does. 

“Fuck off,” he growls, giving Harry a last, rough shove against the brickwork before stepping away. 

What he doesn’t expect is for Harry to lunge at him and pin him bodily against the cold metal of the streetlamp behind him. Niall’s spine aches with the force, all the wind knocked out of him, fingers going numb. 

Harry glares at him for a heartbeat. And then he kisses him. 

It’s the most violent kiss Niall’s ever had; all teeth and force and heat. One of Harry’s hands comes to rest at Niall’s throat, a thumb pushing against his pulse point like he’s about to choke him. Something fierce and animalistic stirs in Niall’s gut, sending an electric shock down his spine. 

It takes too long for his senses to return to him, but when they do, he shoves Harry away from him as hard as he can. 

Harry stumbles back on the slick pavement, gasping for breath. His mouth is bruised a deep red, eyes wild. All the drunken rage has vanished from his face, replaced by something raw. It reverses back into that hard expression quickly - but not fast enough. Niall saw the look on his face. 

“Is that what you wanted?” Harry asks once he’s caught his breath, eyes hollow. His voice lacks any kind of real venom. “ _Bastard_.” 

The only thing Niall can hear over the howl of the wind is his own heartbeat, thudding and tripping and faltering as they stand there in the dark. He can still feel the phantom press of Harry’s mouth against his own, hard and bruising. 

Harry’s shoulders slump, eyes falling away from Niall’s face. Then he hunches over and promptly vomits. 

Niall squeezes his eyes shut, ears filled with the sound of Harry retching. His heart’s in his throat, hands are shaking, and if he’s being honest, he might hurl too. 

But he doesn’t, in the end. Harry wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve and looks up at Niall like he can’t remember how they got there.

That’s his best friend, he thinks, and his heart breaks with it. _He won’t remember this tomorrow_. 

Niall guides Harry carefully around the puddle of vomit and lets him lean heavily on him all the way home. He hears Harry whisper _I’m sorry_ twice, but Niall acts like Harry never said a thing. He doesn’t think he can acknowledge...whatever happened, just yet. He’ll think about it later. Pull every moment apart at the seams. Rewind and reverse and try to figure out what the hell happened. 

But not tonight. 

Not now. 

_March 30, 1944._

_Royal Air Force Base: Wickenby, England._

Niall knew airfights were risky business. He’s known it since the day he got here. He’s seen bloodied halves of men carried into the medical ward and not come back. He’s seen the wreckage, seen planes explode in flames not two hundred feet from their own. 

And he knew the Luftwaffe were devastatingly good at what they did, that they owned the skies, and that they were fighting a losing battle more often than not. They saw that well enough at Berlin two months ago. 

Nothing could have prepared him for this, though. 

Their target was Nuremberg. It made them all queasy to discover during their briefing that there was virtually no cloud cover, and to top it off, that it was a full moon. 

The stench of hot oil filled the plane as they flew over the open heartland of Germany, the plane shuddering and roaring so loudly that he could barely hear Liam over the intercom. 

The carnage began quickly. The sky lit up like lightning with flashes of explosions and bright light, bombers tumbling earthward, dropping like flies. The intercom buzzed wildly as they talked over each other, Liam reporting every few seconds as a plane ahead of them or to port or starboard went down. They could only watch in horror and pray, hearts slamming in their throats, that they weren’t next. It was fear like Niall had never known. 

Thirty planes went down in two minutes. All Niall could see in his mind’s eye was the same happening to them; imagining fire roaring through the aircraft, reaching the bomb bay, and then blowing them to bits and raining the wreckage down like confetti. 

Around thirty more planes were down by the time they reached the turning point, and that’s when they got caught in the searchlights. Liam valiantly tried to keep them clear of bullets, but he wasn’t enough. At least one tank ruptured, and Fionn’s panicked, weak voice reported over the intercom that a piece of flak had embedded itself in his thigh. 

All they could do was order him not to try to remove it - it offered some stoppage of the bleeding, at least - and they had swung around, dropping their load at random just to lighten the craft. 

They lost another forty crews on the way home: some went down after being drawn into vicious dogfights, a handful got torn to pieces with flak. Many are missing, having bailed as their plane caught on fire. There are too many unaccounted for. 

He’d been half hoping that at least a good portion of the hits they’d seen were just scarecrows - empty shells the Germans sent up to replicate exploding airplanes, for the sole purpose of disheartening them- but they were out of luck. And the icing on the cake: at least five of the crews were sprog crews, fresh out of training. In all, they lost 95 planes and 545 men. 

An unprecedented number of their own barrack is dead. One boy - Fionn’s age, maybe even younger - is sitting hunched over in his bed, hands in his face. Some are praying; Harry’s got his rosary wrapped around his hands as he sits up in bed. Everyone is numb. Everyone is silent. 

Except for Liam, who always hums to himself when he’s nervous or scared or worried and trying to calm himself down. Sometimes it’s an endearing habit. Most of the time they put up with it. But tonight, everyone is so keyed up and frustrated and downright sick with grief, and he can’t fucking stand it any longer. He doesn’t even care that he shouldn’t be speaking to his captain like this. 

“Can you shut up for two goddamned minutes?” he barks, glaring at the back of Liam’s head. The place goes silent. Even Louis’ eyes go wide. 

Liam turns around and his expression is so much like that of a kicked dog that Niall instantly feels regret welling up in his chest, but he can’t take it back, and he’s still relieved that Liam’s stopped his bloody humming. 

“Sorry, Nialler,” Liam mumbles, and the nickname stings, makes him feel even guiltier. “I’ll stop.” 

“Liam-”

“No, it’s alright.” 

Niall watches as Liam climbs up into the bunk above his. Harry catches his eye, and for a second he thinks he’s going to chew him out - but then he mouths _thank you,_ and he barely holds back a weak laugh. 

When Harry’s smile fades, they stare at each other across the aisle. Harry’s eyes look like the ones he sees in the mirror, sometimes - not in color, or shape, but in grief. Exhaustion. All of them look so strikingly different from the eager, innocent boys they were coming into this war, changed irrevocably by what they’ve seen, what they’ve had to do. The brothers they’ve lost. 

They turn to the only antidote: alcohol. 

* * *

“Okay, get this,” Harry tries, leaning his weight on the table with his elbows. It creaks dangerously. “Louis, are you listening?” 

“Yes, I’m bloody listening,” Louis groans, scrubbing a hand through his hair. 

“Okay, okay - why did the scarecrow win an award?” There’s a loony, drunken grin on Harry’s face, but so much genuine earnesty in his eyes. He just wants to make them feel better, even for a night. 

“Why?” Liam pipes up dutifully, seeming to physically brace himself for the response. 

“He was _outstanding_ in his _field_ ,” Harry says seriously. A beat passes. Two. Harry, unable to contain himself, dissolves into a peal of laughter. 

It’s not so much the joke as Harry’s laugh that gets them all to crack a smile - every one of them, even Fionn, who a few seconds ago looked ready to bash Harry’s head in with his pint glass. 

“You’re insufferable,” Louis says, shaking his head, but his eyes are crinkled up in a faint smile. “You know that? An absolute pain in my fuckin’ arse.” 

“Louis,” Harry sighs, still giggling, “I know you love me, deep down.” 

“Deep, deep down,” Niall clarifies. This gets Harry’s attention.

“Niall James Horan, are you mocking me?” 

“Goodness, no,” Niall tells him gravely, and Bressie’s laughter shakes the table. They’re so fucking _drunk_. Their mood’s been flipped on its end, ratcheted back up to the other extreme. 

Petulant, Harry kicks him under the table. 

“What are you, five?” 

Another kick. 

“Stop that.” 

Harry kicks him harder, his faux-affronted expression beginning to split into a ear-to-ear smile again, and that’s when Niall realizes he loves him. 

It’s not an earth-shattering thing, when all’s said and done. It’s just. One second he’s looking at Harry, thinking, I’m friends with a genuine idiot, and the next second he’s thinking, but God, how I love him. 

How I love him. 

It’s a passing thought. The full weight of it only hits him as they’re walking home, stumbling drunkenly in a line down the road to the Wickenby base. Jack’s leading them in a cheer, some song Niall can’t remember the words to, victory something triumphant blah blah God save the King, it all begins to blur. 

But the point of contact between him and Harry, that’s in razor sharp focus. He can feel every shift of Harry’s arm where it lays over his shoulders, the sharp jut of his hip when he leans too heavily on him, his calloused fingertips digging in just to stay upright. 

It seems to trickle through his bloodstream, icy cold fear and burning hot surety, calcifying on his bones. 

_I love him,_ he thinks, grinning stupidly as Harry tilts his head back and bellows, _hey!_

Harry wraps his arm tighter around Niall’s shoulders and pulls him closer, smiles like the sun. 

_I love him so much it makes me stupid._

_July 23, 1944._

_Royal Air Force Base: Wickenby, England._

It’s Sinatra that’s floating over the airwaves again. The crew are scattered around the barracks, writing more letters home. They’ve taken too many losses as of late. If Niall thinks hard about it, he’ll notice faces that were usually wandering around have disappeared. 

He doesn’t bother, though. He gets his daily dose of misery listening to the newspaper being read aloud. 

“ _A Ministry of Home Security comm-”_ Liam pauses suddenly, bushy eyebrows drawing together. “ _Common-”_

“Let me see that,” Louis says, snatching the newspaper from him. Niall watches idly as Louis’ bright eyes dart over the paper and fix on something, his expression slowly coming to match Liam’s. “I don’t know what the fuck that is. Give it a try, Harold,” he says, and thrusts the pages in Harry’s face. “Bet your posh arse can figure it out.” 

“Where?” 

Louis jabs at the line impatiently. 

“Oh. _Communique_.” Harry says simply, and pushes himself up on his bunk, back curving against the headboard. Niall stares briefly at the strip of tanned skin not covered by his shirt, and then pulls his gaze away guiltily, pretending like he hadn’t been doing anything at all. 

“It says...‘A Ministry of Home Security communique yesterday stated that air raid casualties in Britain during the first six months of 1943 amounted to 2,347 killed and 3,412 seriously injured. This is compared to 3,112 killed and 3,412 injured in the same period in 1942.’” 

Harry glances up at them all, and Liam nods. “Go on.” 

“There’s a quote, from some general,” Harry mutters, chewing on his lip. “Says, ‘The hard road stretches before us, and 1944 may well be the hardest year of the whole war, calling for the heaviest pull and the greatest sacrifice on the part of the Allies. But the prize is worth them all.’” 

Harry pauses, and the radio is still on, quiet but loud enough for Niall to hear if he focuses on it. 

_“...and if I try, I still couldn’t hide my love for you...you went away and my heart went with you…”_

“‘With victory, God’s mercy would return to mankind, hope and faith would return, it will mean a new dawn for mankind.’” 

_“...you’ll never know just how much I miss you...you’ll never know just how much I care…”_

“‘May it be victory not only over our external enemies, but also the enemy among and within us - selfishness...social injustice...and personal evils.’” 

_“...I keep your name in my every prayer...if there is some other way to prove that I love you, I swear I don’t know how...you’ll never know if you don’t know now…”_

Harry lifts his gaze from the paper and locks eyes with Niall. His breath catches suddenly in his throat, and he digs his fingers into the bedspread, trying not to flinch away. 

This whole bright new avenue of possibility has opened up for them, for all of them. The end has never been so close, and it terrifies him. Everything is up in the air. Uncertain.

“You really think it’ll end this year?” Liam says softly to no one in particular, dangerous hope bleeding into his tone. No one answers. 

Harry folds up the paper and drops it to the floor before reaching over and deftly turning up the radio. The song changes. 

_“...won’t you tell me when we will meet again...Sunday, Monday, or always…and if you’re satisfied, I’ll be at your side, Sunday, Monday, or always...no need to tell me now, what makes the world go round...when at the sight of you, my heart begins to pound, and pound, and what am I to do?”_

_February 03, 1945._

_Royal Air Force Base: Wickenby, England._

An hour into the briefing before Leipzig, the gunners, bombardiers, and engineers trundle in, causing a ruckus. Harry’s giggling like a schoolgirl over something Jack said when he plops down in the folding chair next to Niall’s. They went out for his birthday two nights ago and he's _still_ acting like he's drunk, high off all the attention he got, probably. The meteorologist glares venomously at all of them, so he elbows Harry in the side to get him to shut up. 

“Ow,” Harry whines, and does not shut up. 

“First wave: Green, Barton, Payne, Durham. Departure 0300,” the officer drones. “Second wave: Cunningham, Davies, Evans, Fox, Williams. Departure 0330…”

By the time they get to suiting up, all cheerfulness has definitively vanished from the atmosphere. Liam keeps muttering worriedly about something to Louis. 

“It’ll be over soon,” Louis sighs darkly in response, tightening the straps on his boots. “Just a matter of when.” 

Niall’s heart begins to sink with dread, like always. His hands keep fluttering around nervously, checking for the coin in his boot, adjusting his coat, tightening the straps on his boots, smoothing his hair down. 

“Have you ever thought about going blonde?” Harry asks absently ten minutes later as they load onto the Halifax, staring at Niall’s hair. Niall wrinkles his nose on instinct, readjusting his grip on the support bar. The plane sways slightly as it begins to move down the runway. 

“What, coloring it? Like dames do?” 

Harry just shrugs. “I just think it would suit you.”

Niall opens his mouth to reply when the plane jolts suddenly, causing him to lose his balance. He would have face-planted into Harry’s chest if Harry hadn’t caught him, one big hand wrapped firmly around his bicep. Niall tires to ignore how that makes his heart stutter. 

“You alright?” Harry asks, half-laughing at him and half-mother-hen. 

Niall just shrugs out of his grip and mutters something incomprehensible while going red in the face. Harry laughs harder. 

They light the entire city on fire within minutes. The rumbling and tremors of the plane around him are familiar. It makes his bones rattle and his teeth chatter. Something bright flashes outside; it could have been a searchlight, or window, or gunfire, or God forbid, lightning. 

And of fucking course it’s lightning. 

The storm hits hardest on the way home. The thunder is deafening, and Niall grows queasy with fear. Even Bressie, who never shows a hint of emotion while they’re flying, looks nervous. 

_“Niall, how much longer have we got?”_

Niall flips back a page in his notebook. His knuckles are red from the cold, fingertips unfeeling. Someone - Harry is the likely culprit - has doodled a large smiley face in the corner. 

“An hour, give or take.” 

“ _Bollocks_ ,” Liam swears, breath crackling over the intercom. 

_We’ll be fine,_ Harry mouths at him, and although Niall knows it’s an empty promise, it quiets him. He grabs his hand and squeezes it, once, his palm warm and dry. Niall’s own are clammy with sweat. The plane shudders violently. 

_“Command is diverting us to Waddington,_ ” Jack reports, squinting at his receiver. “ _The storm’s too rough over Wickenby, apparently.”_

“Do we have enough fuel?”

_“Just enough.”_

They land at the base worse for wear. They’re informed repairs to the Halifax will take hours, and what’s more, the storm doesn’t look to be clearing up any time soon. With at least a full day free, they get the chance to relax - truly relax - for the first time in a while. 

There’s a piano in the corner of the mess hall, which Harry makes a beeline for the minute debriefing is over. Niall hovers nearby, observing as Harry plays various scales, his slender fingers flashing over the ivory keys. At least six of them are broken, but Harry segues into a piece he has memorized by heart anyways. 

The music is delicate and haunting. The blank notes break up the flow of it, though, jarring Niall out of his thoughts every time. It feels almost like missing a step going down the stairs. 

“You never told me you could play.” 

Harry gives him a one-shouldered shrug without pausing. “My mum had me take lessons when I was younger.” 

Niall’s parents couldn’t have afforded piano lessons. They weren’t _poor_ , but they weren’t particularly affluent. Until he moved out, every single item of clothing Niall owned was previously Greg’s. They didn’t have much by the way of toys, either, when they were kids. It made him fiercely envious to see the neighbor’s children with their new Tinkertoys, not caring if a piece was misplaced or snapped because their dads could afford to buy them a brand new set for the next holiday or birthday. 

Niall doesn’t feel envious now. He’s glad to sit there and watch Harry play, his eyes so focused and mouth pursed as his fingers fly over the keys. It’s stunning to look at, the whole thing. Sometimes it seems to him that Harry belongs in an art museum; more beautifully sculpted than David and more striking than the Mona Lisa. 

There would be an exhibit for the soft hair that curls at the nape of his neck, a whole gallery dedicated to the stages of his smile. One for the red bands left imprinted above his knuckles when he twists his rings around his fingers; one for the tears in his eyes he doesn’t think Niall can see after they bomb another city full of civilians. One for his reddened lips after the second glass of whiskey. Another for every graceful shift of tendon and muscle in his hands when he writes.

Jack appears suddenly and draws his index finger carelessly along the row of keys, disrupting Harry’s piece. 

“We’re going out.” 

* * *

They sit at the base of a tree out in the fields surrounding Waddington Base, where a cool breeze rushes through, tall grass rippling in its wake. Niall’s got his dog-eared book open in his lap where he sits cross-legged in the soil, and Harry lies on his stomach in the grass, watching cross-eyed as a ladybug crawls closer to his nose. Farther out, Liam and Jack toss a ball back and forth. Louis dangles from the tree above them, his hair hanging so that it looks like he’s stuck his finger in a socket. 

Niall stares at his page, not absorbing any of the words. It’s good to just sit still for once and feel the sun on his skin, to let his mind go blissfully blank. 

“When I was younger,” Louis says suddenly, voice strange, “my mum used to take my sisters and I to the coast to spend the weekend.” 

Niall tilts his head back to look at Louis. He’s staring off into the distance, face slowly growing red with the blood rushing to his head. 

“Must’ve been nice.” 

Louis laughs softly, and it’s a choked sound. “I complained the whole time. I said I hated the feeling of sand in my toes, and I hated my swimming trunks, and I hated how bright the sun it was and how cold the water was. I was a little arsehole.”

Niall catches Harry’s eyes. He looks as confused as Niall feels. 

“Louis-”

“She’s really ill,” Louis says suddenly, and a teardrop slides up his face. It falls to the earth. “I don’t know how much time she has left.” 

The peace of the quiet afternoon is shattered, and Niall sits up straighter, at a loss for words. 

“Maybe we’ll get to go home soon,” Harry soothes, folding his legs under him and staring earnestly up at Louis’ crumpled, upside-down face. 

At that, Louis breaks into sobs, the branch he hangs off shaking. He slides down out of the tree and goes to Niall immediately, pulling him into a fierce, crushing hug. Niall holds him just as tight, and it’s as if he can physically feel the grief bleeding out of him. Louis’ tears soak his shirt, ragged sobs racking his body. Over his shoulder, Niall looks to Harry, who has a devastated expression on his face. His green eyes water in the blinding sunlight. 

_February 13, 1945._

_Dresden, Germany._

Acres and acres of land are awash with hellish fire, white-hot flames consuming everything Niall can see. Silver window glitters in the air, reflecting the eerie green light of the flares. It’s horrifyingly beautiful. 

Harry is so shaken that Liam has to request an altitude check twice before he actually responds, and when he emerges from the pit, his face is ashen. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, but Harry just shakes his head. 

“Gimme a minute,” he says, pushing his hands through his hair and taking even, controlled breaths. His face is scrunched up like he’s in pain. 

Then he drops to his knees, switches off his intercom, bows his head, and begins to pray. 

_Deus meus, ex toto corde paenitet me omnium meorum peccatorum, eaque detestor, quia peccando, non solum poenas a Te iuste statuas promeritus sum, sed praesertim quia offendi Te, summum bonum, ac dignum qui super omnia diligaris. Ideo firmiter propono, adiuvante gratia Tua, de cetero me non peccatorum peccandique occasiones proximas fugiturum. Amen._

Harry gets back to his feet and sits in the pit instead of in his usual post-drop seat on the bench. He doesn’t speak to Niall for the rest of the flight. 

_February 16, 1945._

_Royal Air Force Base: Wickenby, England._

“Has she sent any photographs?” Jack smirks suggestively, elbowing Louis in the side. _She_ being Louis’ girl back home, Eleanor. 

“Piss off,” Louis says, but there’s a smile on his face. He’s opening a letter from home, and all the boys are ribbing him about it being a Valentine from her. 

Niall remembers, with a twinge of bitterness, that Willie hasn’t written him in months. Anyways, Harry’s got a letter of his own, which Niall reads over his shoulder. 

_Hi, bug,_ the letter starts, which must mean it’s from Gemma. _Evie’s been a right nuisance these days. Mum says it’s because she’s getting old, but I say it’s because she’s a bitch._ Niall lets out a surprised laugh, and through the corner of his eye he sees the dimple in Harry’s right cheek grow deeper. _Mrs. McKellan from the bakery keeps asking after you…_

“Louis,” Niall starts, glancing up at him to crack a lewd joke about the letter, but stops short when he sees Louis’ face. 

He’s gone as white as a ghost, and the folded paper in his hands trembles like a leaf in the wind. He raises his eyes at the sound of his name. 

“Niall,” Louis says, and his voice sounds strange, “would you read this out loud for me?” 

He holds the letter out over the table, and Niall takes it from him. 

He unfolds it and begins to read, brows drawn together. 

“ _Dear Louis. I pray they haven’t censored the contents of this letter, because I feel you have the right to know, moral fibre be damned.”_

He spares a glance up at Louis, who’s staring into the distance with a perfectly blank expression, hands folded on the table. The group has gone deadly silent. 

_“Mum-"_ His eyes skim over the rest of the sentence, and his heart sinks. “Oh, _Louis_.” 

“Finish the fucking letter,” Louis says, voice hard. “Say it.” 

Niall takes a deep breath, and reads, “ _Mum passed away quite peacefully two mornings ago. Her funeral-”_

The plates on the table rattle violently as Louis lurches from his seat and stumbles from the mess hall, gone before anyone can even get a word out. 

* * * 

They don’t see him again for the rest of the day, until Niall wanders outside in the middle of the night, unable to sleep. He glances around the outdoor area of the compound - and clocks a pair of legs dangling off the roof, the shoelaces on the left boot undone and hanging. 

“Louis?” 

Louis’ head appears over the side along with his hunched shoulders, his hair a bird’s nest, haloed by the full moon. “Well, come on up, I suppose.” 

“How-”

“The dumpster, you bloody gink,” Louis says, head disappearing out of view again. Clearly the shock hasn’t made him any less testy. 

Obediently, Niall clambers onto the top of the dumpster and then hoists himself up and over the edge of the roof, the wind whipping at his thin shirt. Once he’s finally sat up safely, Louis pulls a pack of cigs out of his pocket. He pats his other pocket, frowning when he evidently feels nothing there.

“You got a lighter? A match?” 

Niall shakes his head no. 

“Bollocks.” Louis pockets the cigarettes, sighing. “I’ll have to get one in town.” 

Niall turns his head and looks towards the edge of the compound, where the inky black sky bleeds across the horizon and into the treeline. If he squints, he can almost see the orangish tint of fire to the east. When he looks at Louis, he feels as if he’s watching him go through the five stages of grief in the span of seconds. 

“I didn’t expect it,” Louis says suddenly, voice lowered. “I knew she was sick, of course. But - you almost forget, don’t you, that life goes on back home just the same as it does here?” 

Niall nods. He thinks of Willie back home, probably stuck in the same old routine, spending nights out on the town or else in front of the fireplace until late, flicking the pages of his newspaper as they droop down. 

And his family, all the way in Mullingar. Theo’s already two, now. His birthday was a week ago. Niall had shipped back a stuffed toy and some sweets he’d picked up in Lissington on the 14th, but God knows Greg’ll intercept it and toss it in the bin no matter when it gets there. It hurts him acutely, sometimes, when he thinks about how Theo probably doesn’t even know he exists. How bluntly and severely he’s been severed from his roots. 

It’s not as if he regrets it, though - it was his choice to leave home. He doesn’t regret that part. He regrets that he had to. He wishes, too, that he’d tried his luck and met Theo before leaving for the war. Even once. 

“I want to go home,” Louis says suddenly, voice soft and bitter. “I want this bloody war to end, and I want to go home.”

 _Home._ The word rings emptily in Niall’s ears. It holds no weight for him. 

Mullingar isn’t home. Not even Dublin. He feels loose, untethered from everything and everyone in the universe, like he could float free into the reach of the stars if he just tried hard enough and no one would notice a thing. 

But Harry would notice. Harry, asleep somewhere underneath the roof they’re sat on, or lying awake and reading from his books by moonlight even though Niall’s forever reminding him it’s bad for his eyesight. 

And of course the crew would notice. Louis, and Jack, and all the rest. They’d probably care. 

“You will,” he says, staring out into the darkness. He sees Louis look over at him through the corner of his eye. “We’re gonna make it.” 

“Never feels that way, does it?” Louis snorts, bumping his shoulder against his. He continues after a minute, quieter. “You’re a good man, Niall.” 

He side-eyes him. “What gave you that idea?” 

Louis just laughs, and even though it’s sad, it’s something. 

“Yeah,” he says, fiddling with his pack of cigarettes again. “We’ll be fine.” 

_March 01, 1945._

_Royal Air Force Base: Wickenby, England._

Another tremor runs through the plane. Niall loses footing for a second, stumbling down the stairs to his bench. The pepper of gunfire rings through the air, and when it doesn’t, he hears the echoes just as clearly. 

He waves Harry over to sit next to him, and Harry comes willingly, the goofy grin he always gives Niall plastered on his face as he - 

A bullet rips through the plane and buries itself in Harry’s torso. 

He looks up at Niall with round, unbelieving eyes, the blood leaving his face. Niall’s eyes drop to the blooming scarlet stain on the front of his shirt, frozen. He wants so scream, but his jaw is glued shut. 

Harry’s hand flashes out and fists the front of Niall’s coat, his mouth open in a desperate, soundless plea- 

Niall wakes up with a jolt. He rips away the sheets tangled around his legs in panic, chest still heaving. 

_Harry._ Harry - Harry’s - 

Niall looks over at him. The moonlight spills over the angles of his sleeping face, hollowing out his cheeks and sharpening the line of his jaw - but he looks remarkably peaceful in sleep, boyish, almost. Innocent. Untouched by the horrors of war. 

Harry stirs slightly, as if able to feel Niall’s eyes on him. He snuffles in his sleep and buries his head into the pillow. 

Niall counts his inhales and exhales. He counts the beat of his heart. He counts the rising and falling of Harry’s chest, one, two, three, four... 

It takes a week for the image of Harry’s pale, agonized face to stop haunting his waking hours, and two to stop thinking about how much blood there was. Harry doesn’t ask why he acts strangely around him, why he often stares at him blankly for a beat too long. He doesn’t say anything when Niall refuses to let him sit by him on the navigator’s bench under some flimsy pretense. Niall wonders if he’s ever had a dream about him dying. 

He reckons if he had to go, dying next to Harry wouldn’t be so bad. 

* * *

The twentieth clover is painted on the side of the _SEAMAIR ÁDH._

_March 16, 1945._

_Dortmund, Germany._

Niall’s gonna miss the fucking truck. 

He’d fell asleep again on accident after the first wake-up call, and nobody’d fucking bothered to get him up until they were all already dressed, and now he doesn’t even have time to tighten his bootstraps before half-sprinting, half-stumbling out of the locker room and out onto the tarmac, where the car is waiting. 

He throws himself in the back seat next to Harry. Liam turns around from the passenger seat and fixes him with a fatherly glare. 

“Don’t make it a habit, Horan.” 

“Yes, sir,” he says breathlessly, cheeks flushed. Harry stifles a laugh next to him. 

* * * 

There was another rear gunner Niall knew - Matthew. He was known for being a sort of replacement gunner; if anyone was sick, he’d fill in. 

Whenever he got his orders, Matthew, he would grow incredibly pale. As the Lieutenant’s words left his white, chapped lips, every sort of emotion would leave Matthew's face, until it looked as if he was wearing a mask carved from stone. The only thing that betrayed him was the shine in his eyes.

That day, when he received his orders, Matthew began to smile. It was a terrifying thing to see; this stick-thin man with a blank face, hollow eyes, smiling so knowingly. 

“If you’re off your feed,” the Lieutenant had said, looking just as unnerved as everyone else, “I’ll get another gunner.” 

Matthew was standing straight, shoulders back, respectfully at attention. “If you please, sir. It’s my turn.” His eyes were entirely detached, unseeing. 

“If you don’t feel sure of yourself-” 

“It’s my turn out, sir.” 

“Matthew, look here-” 

“Sir!” 

So Matthew went on the sortie. Everything had gone smoothly, and the pilot kept in touch with him over the intercom regularly. 

Fifteen minutes before landing, they heard a distant German fighter. Too far away to be a threat, but close enough to act as a siren call. 

Thirteen minutes before landing, Matthew became unresponsive. 

That evening, he was brought in with his skull split open by the tail of his own plane. He had attempted bailing out over home territory when they were already out of danger. The plane had been going at high speed, and he’d fumbled the parachute job. 

Like a sheep led knowingly and dutifully to the slaughter. 

* * *

The plane rumbles beneath his feet like an old friend. Everyone is in a better mood today; they’re bombing industrial sites and factories instead of residential buildings. Louis keeps whistling, and Jack has threatened twice now to pull him out of the intercom system if he doesn't shut his trap. 

_“Anything for you, darling,”_ Louis simpered, and quit whistling for a record four minutes and sixteen seconds before starting up again. 

“When it’s all over,” Harry says, fiddling with the buckle on his boot. He’s sitting with his back pressed up against the side of the plane’s belly, Niall across from him with his notes clutched tightly in his hand, unwilling to let go even though they’re safely out of enemy territory. “When it’s over, you should come stay with me, for a bit. Want you to meet my mum and Gemma.” 

“Don’t forget Evie.” 

“Yeah, and Evie.” 

The fact that the war’s almost over doesn’t mean anything. There’s still just as much of a chance that they get blown to bits. And yet they let themselves dream otherwise. It’s foolish. Childish, even. But it’s impossible to fight against; once hope’s got its claws in you, it won’t ever let go. 

“I’d like that,” Niall says. 

The corner of Harry’s mouth tilts up in a smile just as a lock of hair falls in his eyes, rakishly handsome as always. 

The Halifax drops violently, jerking him out of his thoughts. They’re under fire.

The piercing white beam of a searchlight brushes over them, and Niall squeezes his eyes shut, nails digging into the meat of his palm. This is routine, he reminds himself. _It’ll be over soon, it’ll be over soon -_

The patter of gunfire rings through the air. 

Niall screams in pain. 

His knee - his fucking _knee,_ Jesus Christ, every nerve ending in his body is lit up with pain, and there’s blood soaking into his pants, coating his palms as he covers the wound. Bitterly cold air whistles ominously through the holes torn into the side of the plane. 

_“Horan,”_ Bressie’s voice crackles, _“Horan, are you alright?”_

“Took a bullet,” he hisses through gritted teeth, heat burning behind his eyes. “It’s just my knee, I’m fine, I’ll be - _Christ,_ I’ll be fine, I can wait.” 

“ _Are you sure?”_

“Yes, I’m fucking sure, just get us _home-_ ”

“Niall.” 

The word is a whisper, so faint Niall’s not sure how he even heard it. He turns, pained tears blurring his vision, to Harry, who is still slumped in the pit. 

Harry’s eyes glint softly in the dim light, face cast in shadow, his mouth parted as he gasps shallowly. 

Nial’s heart thuds harder in his chest. His eyes fall, slowly, to the dark stain spreading over Harry’s stomach. 

_No._

_“Harry, what about you?”_ Bressie continues, oblivious to the horror choking Niall’s throat, filling his lungs. 

Harry stares at Niall. He says nothing. 

“Shit,” Niall whimpers, biting down on his tongue to keep from screaming in pain as he scrambles off his bench and towards Harry, his vision going white when he collapses awkwardly on the floor of the plane and has to drag himself closer. 

He places a shaking hand over Harry’s wounds, trying in vain to maintain pressure on them. Harry’s breathing hard, his chest heaving with effort. Niall mumbles breathlessly to him.

“It’s alright, Harry, listen to my voice, okay? _Shit_. You’re gonna be fine, we’re not that far from a base. Just hang on, you hear? Stay with me. It’s alright.” 

Harry’s eyes flutter shut listlessly and then snap open. “We’re not.” 

“What?” 

“We’re not close enough to anywhere,” Harry whispers, face twisted in pain. “Give me my parachute.” 

_“Styles?”_

“No!” Niall barks, chest seizing. “No, you’re not _jumping_ out of this fucking plane, Harry, are you _mad?”_

“We’re too far,” Harry repeats, tears shining in his eyes. “I have - I have a better chance if I go now, you have to let me _go,_ Niall, please-” 

“Then I’m going with you.” 

“Your knee can fucking wait, you overdramatic-” Harry coughs, lungs rattling, eyes squeezing shut. “Bastard.” 

“Harry.” 

Harry, mustering up more willpower than Niall could ever dream of, gets to his feet. His blood-stained hand is still clutching his stomach. 

Niall tries to rise, but his knee gives out, and he has no choice. Niall cannot stop him. Niall cannot do anything but watch, horrified. 

Harry grabs his parachute, and slowly, painstakingly straps it on.

_“Horan, what’s going on?”_

“Harry’s fucking jumping,” he says frantically. “He - he’s been shot in the stomach at least twice-” 

“ _Let him,”_ Louis orders. “ _H_ _e’ll bleed out if he stays any longer. At least someone on the ground will get him.”_

Unless it’s the enemy that gets him, in which case - 

“You’re coming back,” he says fiercely to Harry, grief already winding around his heart. “We’ll find you, d’you hear me? Promise me you’ll wait. We’ll come back for you.” 

The hatch is already open, the howling wind drowning out their words, but Niall can see. He sees when Harry turns around to face him. 

“I promise,” Harry says. He salutes him, dimples flashing weakly. 

And then he turns around and jumps. 

Niall doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at the hatch door swinging open. The night sky twinkles sharply at him. Every breath he takes feels like a knife to the gut. 

_“Horan!”_

He stares at his instruments, his papers, his writing, but sees a total sum of nothing. There is the crackle of the intercom in his ear, someone saying his name, but he hears a total sum of nothing. It swims before his eyes. It buzzes in his ears. All of it is meaningless. 

Harry is gone. What else could possibly matter? 

What does one do when the sun blinks out? 

_“Niall!”_

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t _understand_. What are the odds of both he _and_ Harry getting shot? Even though they had cleared Germany safely? Even though - 

Niall freezes. All he can hear is blood rushing in his ears as he reaches into his coat pocket for his lucky coin, and finds

nothing.

He finds nothing. 

He rips the coat off and shakes it out, tears swimming in his vision, lungs closing up in panic. He checks his pants, his boots, his fucking socks, he checks his notebook and the floor of the plane and the bench and behind his parachute and it isn’t fucking _there_. 

The weight of it crashes into him like a freight train. 

_It’s his fault._

Harry’s gone - Harry could be dead right now because of his mistake, because he forgot the simple routine he’s been doing for over a decade. 

But they still need a navigator, and Niall will not fail his crew twice. 

So he pushes the shock to the back of his mind, and even though he can barely breathe and his hands are numb, he gets them home. 

* * * 

The days that follow are pure and unadulterated agony. Every breath he takes feels useless; he can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t think straight. Liam has to remind him more than once that he’s a flight risk in this state, and Niall simply grunts _acknowledged_ every time. They’re not even in the air yet; they’re on break, he doesn’t give a shit about flight risks. 

It sounds awful, but he’s glad there aren’t enough of them left. If there had been, Harry’s bunk might have been taken by some new flyer, and he isn’t sure how he would react to that. Probably violently. 

But staring day in and day out at an empty bed isn’t much better. Waking up screaming from the same nightmare every time he closes his eyes and not being able to look at Harry’s face to calm him down isn’t much better. Leaving an empty space at the table during meals isn’t much better. 

The worst part is that no one else reacts the way he does. Sure, they’re somber, and silent, and gloomier than usual, but no one looks like their entire life’s been ripped to shreds in front of their eyes, no one acts like they’d rather shoot themselves in the head than wait another day for the official declaration of Harry’s status. 

Because Harry’s just a friend to them. A brother at most. There aren’t words to describe what he was to Niall, the place he held in his life. Niall feels like a ship unmoored, like he’s free falling through the air and this time there isn’t anyone to catch him. It’s worse than Hell or any punishment the God Harry prays to could come up with. This is limbo. This is living half-dead. 

_March 24, 1945._

_Lissington, England._

Louis’ palm is dry in his hand, but Jack’s, who sits two places away, is sweaty. Niall stares at the wooden table, studying the stain marks on it. Every time he spares a glance to the empty seat next to him, he has to bite the inside of his cheek to distract himself and shove all his emotions down. He’s gotten fairly good at being able to compartmentalize. 

“Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts,” Liam says, voice gruff, “which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. And - and we lift our eyes to You, Most Gracious Father, from where our hope and help comes.” 

Niall glances across the table to Bressie, who looks just as confused as he feels. Liam usually says grace before meals, but this time he’s tacked something on the end. 

“Today, Lord, we cry out to You on behalf of our missing friend Harry. We patiently await his safe return or news of his whereabouts. Guide him to safety, Lord, and guard carefully his eternal soul. Amen.” 

Anger and frustration and grief and bitterness all sink like a stone to the pit of his gut. He swallows heavily, and when they finally eat, everything tastes more like cardboard than usual. He can’t stomach more than two bites of his potatoes before he pushes everything away and gets to his feet, mind painfully blank. 

He leaves without saying a word, disappearing into the cold night air. The moon is full and radiant overhead, but Niall doesn’t even spare it a second glance. He can’t feel anything if he’s not thinking about Harry, worrying about him, praying for him in his own meager way. He doesn’t allow himself to. To do so feels like a sin - his oversight caused this wreck, and it's his duty to repent for the rest of his waking days. 

The door swings open behind him, and a triangle of golden light grows on the grass before reducing to nothing again. Footsteps crunch through the frosty grass and come to a stop beside him. 

“Nice night,” Bressie says by way of conversation, shoving his hands into his pockets. He looks like he’s trying to make himself smaller, more personable. Niall ignores him. 

“You’re gonna be hungry tomorrow, lad.” 

Niall shrugs. 

“Look, I know you’re all torn-up about Harry-” 

“Torn-up?” Niall interrupts, turning to him. “What’s there to be torn-up about? He’s fine. He’s alive. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Breslin.” 

Bressie’s face softens under the moonlight. Niall turns away again, disgusted by his pity. 

“How do you know he’s alive, Niall,” Bressie says quietly, not unkindly. 

“How do _you_ know he’s _dead_ , _Niall_.” 

Bressie sighs, breath spouting out like smoke. He squeezes Niall’s shoulder gently, and says, “You can’t stop living just ‘cause he’s gone.” 

Niall bites his tongue hard enough to draw blood, the coppery taste filling his mouth. He could not let the dam break. He knew the flood that would follow was too great, too immense; there was no planet in the universe that would not be swamped with the violence of his emotion.

“We need you.” 

_And I need_ him, he almost says. 

Niall shrugs out of his grip, all emotions rolling away like fog. “Acknowledged.” 

Bressie sighs again, and then leaves him alone, disappearing back into the warm hall to rejoin their friends. 

_Come home,_ he thinks desperately, once he’s alone and the cold has started to seep into his bones. The flicker of hope he’s clinging on to is starting to wane, to sputter and smoke. 

_Please, come home._

_April 01, 1945._

_Royal Air Force Base: Wickenby, England._

Harry is listed as Killed In Action on the first of April, 1945. 

Niall argues with the officer for an hour, tells him to double- and triple-check his sources, that he wants _proof,_ he wants a _body -_ until Liam pulls him away with a sheepish smile and an apology. 

He pretends to cool off, head outside for a smoke, but as soon as he’s out of the compound, he starts running, feet half-slipping in the wet grass, running and running and _running_ until his lungs burn like they’re on fire and his eyes sting with the wind and tears and he’s being torn in two, ripped apart at the seams, pain spilling out of him in a great torrential flood - 

He _screams_ over it, once he’s deep in the woods, so deep he might be lost after all. He screams, ugly and raw and brutal, like an animal. He lies flat on his back in the mud and cries like he’s never cried before, howling into the wind. He swears he could start a biblical flood with the tears that leave his body, swears he could make the world go up in flames with the heat of his anger. He digs his fingers into the soft earth, brown in his fingernails, trying to hold himself to the ground, trying to hold his body together. 

It seems like the war is hell-bent on forcing him through every kind of extreme emotion; first terror like he’s never known, and now pain. Pain that feels like it’s crushing his ribs into dust, the kind that makes him sob so hard he thinks it might just break his body in two. 

Harry’s gone, he chants in his head, he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s never coming back, he’s never coming back, you’ll never see his smile again, he’s _dead -_

_April 08, 1945._

_Royal Air Force Base: Wickenby, England._

Liam pulls him into a secluded area of the corridor before he turns in for the night, his face long and solemn. 

“Niall, there’s something...I need to talk to you about.” 

“Alright.” 

“Please don’t take this personally, really. It’s not-” 

“Spit it out,” Niall says placidly. He knows what’s coming. 

“I’m going to have to talk to the senior officers about your behavior,” Liam confesses, looking pained. “I know what you must be going through right now, but-” 

“You don’t,” Niall scoffs. 

“What?” 

“Nothing.” 

Liam opens his mouth like a fish, floundering.

“Well, either ways, Niall,” he says, clearly starting to get uncomfortable. Niall couldn’t care less. “You put the entire crew at risk when you get on that plane. You mess up flight plans too often, you don’t respond on the intercom...You’re clearly not well in the head, and what’s more, you deserve to grieve in peace.” 

_So does everyone else, what’s so special about me,_ Niall would say, but he doesn’t want to argue. It would be fruitless. He knows his time here is over. 

“So unless you’re getting better-” 

_Don’t hold your breath._

“Fine.” 

Liam’s eyebrows raise slightly. “Fine?” 

Niall stares. “You do what you have to do, Captain. I’ll deal with the consequences.” 

Liam pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales slowly. His breath smells like tobacco. “Okay. Well, I’m sorry, Niall. Truly sorry.” 

“It’s alright.” 

“I just wanted to give you a heads up, I didn’t want any bad blood between us...” 

“I said it’s alright.” 

“It was an honor to fly with you,” he continues quietly, reaching out to squeeze Niall’s shoulder. 

He does not flinch away.

On April 9th, 1945, Niall James Horan is dishonorably discharged from the Royal Air Force for lacking moral fibre. 

On May 8th, 1945, the war in Europe ends. Niall receives a letter from Louis informing him that he and Niall are the only surviving members of the original crew. The plane went down in a freak shot and only Louis escaped with his life. Niall does not write back. 

On August 14th, 1945, the second World War ends. 

Who won? 

Anyone you ask will answer readily: the Allies. From Niall’s side, it doesn’t add up so neatly. 

His friends burned to death in an airplane. The men he knew - good, innocent men - were captured as prisoners of war and executed. His best friend bled out from a bullet wound as he fell to earth. 

They fought so long, so hard, but what was it all for? Is it victory to stagger beneath the weight of memory for eternity? 

He doesn’t know. But he doesn’t want it like this. 

Although Niall isn’t religious, reciting words that held meaning for the people he loved lets his bones settle for a minute, lets the insistent beat of his heart soften and steady. 

He pictures Harry in his mind, pressing the cross on his necklace to his lips as he closed his eyes and begged God for what little mercy He could spare. 

_Incline Thine ear, O Lord, unto our prayers, wherein we humbly pray Thee to show Thy mercy upon the souls of Thy servants, whom Thou hast commanded to pass out of this world, that Thou wouldst place them in the region of peace and light, and bid them be partakers among Thy Saints._

_Amen._


	2. rearview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry takes a step closer, and here’s another familiar feeling - love, seeping out of his pores and into the air around them, pulsing in his fingertips, pooling on his tongue, warming him from the inside out. 
> 
> And one more - loss, like a poison. It branches over his skin, turning all the good parts of him to a weary watery blue sadness. 
> 
> Love and loss. Love and loss, and loss, and loss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know what time it is. it’s emotionally-traumatize-an-already-traumatized-character-o’clock! 
> 
> (chapter title from rearview by zayn)

_Perhaps the hardest thing about losing a lover is_

_to watch the year repeat its days._

_It is as if I could dip my hand down_

_into time and scoop up_

_blue and green lozenges of April heat_

_a year ago in another country._

> “The Glass Essay,” Anne Carson (1995)

_how do you mourn the loss of a love you_

_never spoke out loud_

_never_

_felt with your own two hands?_

> “soft in the middle,” Shelby Eileen (2017)

_Death is terrible, but still more terrible is the feeling that you might live for ever and never die._

> “The Notebook of Anton Chekhov,” Anton Chekhov (2004)

_Every year_

_everything_

_I have ever learned_

_in my lifetime_

_leads back to this: the fires_

_and the black river of loss_

_whose other side_

_is salvation,_

_whose meaning_

_none of us will ever know._

_To live in this world_

_you must be able_

_to do three things:_

_to love what is mortal;_

_to hold it_

_against your bones knowing_

_your own life depends on it;_

_and, when the time comes to let it_

_go,_

_to let it go._

> “In Blackwater Woods,” Mary Oliver (1983)

* * * * * 

THE INTERIM

* * * * *

  
  


_April 1945_

_Dublin, Ireland_

Lush countryside blurs past the glass. Despite the icy numbness that’s had control of his brain for the last few weeks, Niall is apprehensive. He feels irreversibly altered by the war, a sore thumb against the backdrop of his country. As if the land won’t take him back the way he wants it to. 

There’s another soldier on the train, dressed in his uniform. Some passengers nod respectfully at him as they pass, but others eye him with barely concealed contempt. Niall’s choice to enlist in the British Army hadn’t been popular among the people he knew, either, but at least people can’t tell him from any of the other men on this train. You don’t get to keep your uniform when you’re discharged like he was. 

It’s just as well. His fucked up knee is already a permanent reminder of the war. 

The shadows beneath his eyes are darker than ever, but no matter how soothing the repetitive rumble of the train is, he can’t fall asleep. His gaze is fixed on the signet ring that sits above the knuckle on his right ring finger. The letter _H_ is engraved in the middle of the gold face, and it glints up at him softly. It’d shone the same way next to where he lay in the plane when they landed back in Wickenby that night, left behind in the chaos. Even in his daze Niall had taken it without second thought and kept it in safekeeping while he waited for news of Harry’s location, imagining returning it to him when he came back to base, the brilliant smile Harry would wear as he said thank you.

The couple ahead of him bend their heads together, whispering about something. The woman laughs and brings her hand up to cover her mouth. The man turns his head to look at her, a wide smile spreading over his face. 

Niall tears his eyes away and draws his bag tighter to his body. He waits for the city. 

The train station is busier than he remembers. There’s no one waiting for him, even though he’d managed to send a hasty letter to Willie before he left base informing him of his return. After waiting for a fruitless half hour, he reluctantly shells out for a cab. There’s no way he’ll make it back in this rain. 

Niall watches other cars slide by his window, trying not to inhale too deeply. The cab smells like spoiled milk. The sky is different than he remembers - dull, metallic gray. After the clean air and wide open spaces of the base, the city feels almost like a cage. 

The apartment building stairs creak like an old friend under his boots. He narrowly misses the upturned nail on the fourth landing, out of practice, and when he finally gets to his door, his knee aches. 

There’s a sliver of yellow light spilling out into the dark hallway. He knocks. 

He waits for a couple of minutes before trying again, and this time, someone calls out from inside. 

“Who is it?” 

Niall falls quiet, brows drawing together. Willie’s never had a particularly deep voice, but that was _definitely_ a woman speaking. 

It’s possible he has a girl over, he thinks, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he frowns at the tarnished _32B_ nailed to the door. Still, he doesn’t feel too badly about interrupting. Willie left him stranded at the station, after all.

“It’s Niall.”

The door cracks open with the latch still drawn. Niall’s eyes fall to a petite woman with short, dark hair, looking up at him with curious eyes. 

“Sorry to bother you,” he says quickly, drawing himself up straighter. “Is Willie in?” 

She frowns. “Willie?” 

“...Willie Devine? He’s my flatmate, he lives here.” 

The woman shakes her head slowly. “You must be mistaken. _I_ live here.” 

Niall looks from her to the flat number, then back to her. “No, this is definitely my-” 

“Hold on, are you the one who keeps writing letters here?” she interrupts. 

“...Possibly.” 

“There _was_ a man who lived here before me, though I don’t recall what his name was,” she says, pushing her hair back from her forehead. Her perfume is citrusy and sweet. “Could’ve been your cousin. The landlady told me he was moving back home, wherever that is. You’ve been sending your mail to the wrong address.” 

“Home?” Niall echoes dumbly, reeling. It’s not entirely out of the question. “But he didn’t - he never wrote me about it. He never gave me a new address.” 

Someone must have gotten suspicious about Willie being _fae_. It happens all the time; when he was ten, Niall had an aunt who had to relocate to Australia because her neighbor said something off-hand about how youthful her skin was. 

But what did Willie do with all Niall’s stuff? His clothes? His guitar?

The woman looks sympathetic. “It’s possible it could’ve got lost in the mail,” she suggests. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.” 

“No, you’ve been loads of help. Sorry for bothering you.” 

“That’s okay. Here, do you want your letters back? They’ve just been sitting here.” 

She disappears from view for a second and then unlatches the door to hand them to him. There’s about five or six letters, each with his own careful, curling writing on the envelope. 

He runs his fingers along the corners, glancing up at her. “Thank you.” 

“No problem at all, Niall,” she smiles. One corner of her mouth tilts slightly higher than the other, and she’s got a pair of twin dimples in her cheeks, strands of dark brown hair coming loose around her face. Niall’s stomach twists painfully. When she speaks again, her voice is much quieter. “Have you come home from the war?” 

Niall nods wordlessly. 

“I’ve got a brother over there,” she tells him. “Daniel. Danny Ryan. I don’t suppose you-” 

Niall shakes his head slowly. “Sorry, I don’t know him.”

She nods, brushing hair away from her face. 

“I hope he comes home soon.” 

“Thanks.” 

“By the way, I never caught your name…”

“Debbie.” 

“I guess I’ll see you around, Debbie. Thanks again,” he says, holding up the envelopes, and she waves goodbye, her smile following him down the dark hallway. 

He stops at the bottom of the staircase, hand gripping the railing. He feels nauseous, and he’s not sure if it’s because he’s now effectively homeless or because Debbie reminded him of Harry; the eyes, the hair, and the smile - the kind of smile he saved just for Niall. The kind he’ll never see again as long as he lives, which is - quite a while. 

Niall sits down heavily on the last step and puts his head in his hands, the rough paper of the envelopes cool against his cheek. 

He’s never been so perfectly alone in his life. He gets that feeling again, the way he used to at Wickenby, as if he’s been snipped free from everything holding him down to earth. He could disappear and the universe wouldn’t notice a thing. There is no friend he has in the world. And it’s his fault. 

_His fault._

All he had to do was keep his goddamned coin on him. 

With a jolt, he remembers he still hasn’t gotten an object charmed yet. He’s been travelling around the country with luck so bad it’s a wonder he hasn’t been killed in a freak accident yet. He’s half afraid, now, that if he goes outside a bolt of lightning will strike him dead where he stands. 

Luckily, he knows where to go to fix that. 

* * * 

It’s only his first night back in the city, but Niall is already growing tired of the biting cold. He’d had worse than this up in the air, but still, he almost fears freezing to death out here. He pulls his threadbare coat tighter around himself and presses the button again, stamping his feet to get blood flowing.

Finally, the man answers, and a slow, rough voice crackles through the intercom. 

_“Who’s it?”_

“Niall,” he says loudly. “Niall Horan.” 

There’s a long, drawn-out silence. 

“ _Sorry, who?”_

“Niall Horan,” he repeats impatiently, louder this time. “Uh, you used to be mates with my cousin? Willie Devine?” 

More silence. 

_“Oh, yes. Willie.”_

Niall waits to be buzzed in, but still nothing happens. He glances at the street around him. 

“Mate, d’you mind? I won’t take up too much of your time.” 

_“Oh, yeah. Come on up.”_

Niall does. The door is open by a half-inch, so he pushes it open with one knuckle. 

He’s only met a witch once in his life, and all he remembers is that she smelled like cigarettes and freshly-mowed grass. The only reason he knows this one is because he was a kind of emergency contact Willie had, a safehouse. If there’s anywhere he might be, this is his best shot. 

The common factor seems to be the cigarettes, but beyond that, the man in front of him looks nowhere near the witch he met almost a decade ago. He’s wearing dark brown trousers and an argyle sweater vest. There’s a nearly-indiscernible sheen to his skin that Niall has, too - a clear _fae_ marker. A pair of glasses sits on top of his head, lost in a shock of unruly dark hair. Niall didn’t know witches could be this attractive. Or young. 

He twists Harry’s ring around his finger. “Mr. Malik? It’s a pleasure to-” 

“Zayn,” he interrupts, smiling politely. “Just call me Zayn.” 

“Zayn,” Niall repeats. “Thanks for-” 

“Come in,” Zayn says suddenly, eyes flashing somewhere over Niall’s shoulder while he opens the door wider for him. “Quickly. You can never be too sure.” 

Niall obeys. Zayn leans into the hallway and looks both ways cautiously before closing the door and locking it. 

Zayn turns around, removes his glasses, rubs his eyes, and then settles them on the bridge of his nose. “Have a seat, Niall,” he says, and gestures to the oversized armchair in front of the fireplace. “I’ll put the kettle on, if you’ll wait a minute.” 

He disappears into the adjoining kitchen, so Niall moves towards the welcome heat of the fireplace. No sooner does he settle down in the chair than a bright orange cat comes trotting in from another room, picking up its pace when it spots Niall. It pauses when it reaches his feet, sniffing his boots cautiously - and then it jumps into Niall’s lap. 

Niall coughs in surprise. The cat curls up. 

“Don’t mind Rika,” Zayn calls suddenly from the kitchen. “She loves visitors.” 

“I can see that,” Niall says, more to the cat than Zayn, and scratches her hesitantly behind her ears. She purrs, blinking up at him. There’s a leather collar around her neck, and a small, tarnished gold tag glints with the name _Paprika._

Judging by Harry’s stories of her, Evie would never be this fr-

He gets that feeling in his chest again. His eyes sting with heat, and he blinks rapidly, trying to focus on the cat in his lap. 

The flat is nice, he decides, glancing around. Cramped, but warm. Bookshelves line both walls. There’s a beat-up television set on the other side of the room in front of a large couch, and a desk against the wall facing the door. 

Zayn comes in with two chipped mugs of tea. Paprika rolls over when Niall takes his and bats at it with one paw. 

“Rika,” Zayn chides, tutting at her. “Be polite.” 

Paprika blinks at him disagreeably. 

“So,” Zayn sighs once he’s settled in his own armchair, crossing his legs. “What brings you here?” 

Niall recounts his story briefly, leaving out any mention of Harry. 

“I was hoping Willie might have stopped by here on his way out of town, or left a message for me…” 

Zayn’s dark brows draw together. “No, I can’t recall anything like that.” 

“It might have been a while ago.” 

Zayn gets to his feet, setting his tea aside, and goes back into the kitchen. He returns squinting at a crumpled piece of paper in his hand. “Let’s see. Willie….Willie...Devine. Sorry, tons of people leave messages with me. They seem to think I’m the go-between for everything...oh, here it is,” he says, expression clearing. Niall sits up straighter in his seat. 

“ _Niall - my letters keep getting returned so I’m leaving this with Zayn just in case. Something came up...I’m sure you can guess what. I’m going home. I know how you feel about your family but I think you should too. It’s not good to be alone out here. See you soon. Willie.”_

The fire crackles noisily. He knew Willie was long gone, but not somewhere so unreachable that he couldn’t follow after him. 

“Not what you were hoping to hear?” Zayn asks, folding the paper and slipping it into his trouser pocket. 

Niall laughs drily. “No, I suppose not.”

“Sorry.” 

Niall’s quiet, staring down at the ring on his finger, rubbing a thumb over the face of it absentmindedly. “As long as I’m here, do you mind doing me a favor?” 

He explains his condition in as brief terms as possible, and how he lost the coin during the war - leaving out the part about Harry. 

Zayn doesn’t say anything for a minute afterwards. He settles down in the armchair again. “That’s very rare.” 

“Yeah.” 

Zayn stares at him blankly for a moment. The silence drags on, and just when Niall’s about to say something, Zayn sneezes so violently his glasses slide right off his nose. Paprika meows from her spot on Niall’s lap. 

“Sorry,” Zayn says, blowing his nose into a handkerchief. His eyes are watering heavily. “I’m allergic.” 

Niall blinks. “To - to me?” 

Zayn puts his glasses back on and squints at him incredulously. His nose is bright red. “No, to the cat,” he says. 

“Sorry, are you being sarcastic? I can’t tell.” 

“I’m not.” 

“But...she’s your cat.” 

“Yes.” 

“She lives here.” 

“‘Course.” 

“...and you’re allergic?” 

“She showed up at the window one day two months ago and demanded to be let in. Who was I to say no?” 

“Oh.” 

“I’ve been working on a relief tonic, but I need some of her fur, and she scratches me every time I get near her. She’s very moody. And you know what’s really strange? She doesn’t even shed.” 

“Really?” 

“I don’t think she’s a normal cat. She’s got to be at least half _síth_.” 

“Maybe a quarter. She’s not big enough.” 

Zayn shrugs. “So,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. “Why did you enlist?” 

“I wanted to help.” 

“Britain?” 

“It was the right thing to do.” 

“Then why did you come home?” 

Niall grips his mug tighter. Paprika stops purring and stares up at him suddenly, unblinking. 

“Um,” he says, and clears his throat. “I’d rather not discuss that.” 

Zayn stirs his tea slowly. His eyes are a gorgeous shade of brown, but his stare is getting more and more unnerving. Niall swallows past the sudden lump in his throat. 

“I apologize for being nosy,” Zayn says, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “I can certainly perform the charm for you. Have you picked a receptor?” 

“No, not yet.” 

“Anything small and portable will do,” Zayn says, setting his tea to the side and getting to his feet. “Copper, silver, gold...I believe I have a few bits here somewhere if you need one…” 

Niall rises, and Paprika slides to the floor, meowing at him in reproach. “Will this do?” 

He twists Harry’s ring off and offers it to Zayn.

“Family heirloom?” Zayn asks as he takes it from him. 

“Of sorts. It belonged to my great-” 

“You can tell me the truth,” Zayn interrupts, pausing his examination of the ring. Niall’s heart skips in his chest. “I’ve got no one to gossip with except Paprika. Any secret’s safe with me.” 

“It’s not a…” he trails off, his throat suddenly closing up. “It belonged to a friend,” he decides finally.

“I’m sorry,” Zayn says quietly. 

Niall frowns.

“For what?” 

“About your-“ Zayn stops and looks up at him, eyes searching his for a moment. He looks back down. “Never mind. I’ll have it ready for you in the morning, if that’s alright. It takes a bit of time.” 

“Thank you,” Niall says, rubbing his eyes roughly. “You could probably just toss it out your window to the park, ‘cause in all honesty, that’s where I’ll end up sleeping tonight.” 

With a tinge of alarm in his voice, Zayn asks, “What?” 

“I haven’t enough money for a hotel.” 

Both of them know he’s begging, though in not as many words. Niall can’t bring himself to care. He’s exhausted down to his bones, hasn’t showered since he left Wickenby, the flat is warm and the cat likes him and Zayn is a stranger but he’s the closest thing he has to a friend right now. He’s got no shame left. 

“I have a spare room,” Zayn offers, and Niall turns back to face him, hopeful. “‘M afraid it’s a bit dusty, ‘cause no one’s been there for a while.” 

“That’s just fine,” he says, sagging in relief. “I don’t know how to thank you, honestly.” 

The corner of Zayn’s mouth lifts in a smile. “Nab some of Rika’s fur and we’ll call it even.” 

“Deal.” 

* * * 

Niall waits until Zayn’s said goodnight and has left the room to unpack. There’s not much he has besides the clothes on his back; just the things he’d brought to base at the start of his service and a spare bit of paper that has the crew’s home addresses on it. They’d promised each other a few months ago that when it came to an end, they’d stay in touch. He’d nearly abandoned it at his bunk when he left, distraught and absolutely certain he never wanted to be reminded of the war again, even to see them. 

He stares at Harry’s sharp scrawl at the bottom. The little smiley face he’d drawn beside his address. 

He sits for a long time on the edge of his bed, staring out through the window at the night sky. It reminds him of the glass in the Halifax, and Harry laying in the pit, his long legs stretched out behind him. The difference is that there would be fire along the edge of the sky, and when the plane shook with another dropped payload, the air would be filled with the crew’s cheers, and Harry’s shoulders would stiffen up with guilt - guilt over taking lives, guilt over feeling guilty for not celebrating a success for their side. Harry never thought anybody noticed that. But Niall always did. 

The memory becomes sawtoothed, slicing through the corners of his heart, reminding him in throbbing echoes that he’ll never have a view like that again. That Harry will never feel like that again, because he’s- 

“Fuck,” Niall swears under his breath, covering his face with his hands. He doesn’t know when he started breathing so hard, or when his palms got so clammy. His heart’s going a mile a minute. 

He lays himself down in bed and pulls the covers up to his chin, but the sheets are too soft and the mattress has too much give to it, nothing at all like the beds at Wickenby. 

The room feels like it’s closing in on him with shadows painted in ash gray, flickering in the edges of his vision. He doesn’t sleep for a second that night. 

* * * 

“I’m sorry to say I used up the last of my tea ration,” Zayn says, sliding a bowl of Cheerios across the kitchen table to him. Early morning light spills across the floor. The air is filled with the smell of severely burnt toast, a slice of which Zayn is slathering a conservative amount of margarine across. He looks even more exhausted than he had last night. “So unless you’d be up for taking my book down to the shop…” 

“Are you joking? It’s probably negative out there.” 

“That’s what I thought.” 

“You’re a witch,” Niall grumbles, shoveling a spoonful of dry cereal into his mouth. “Can’t you just conjure up your own tea?” 

“I’m not God,” Zayn replies crossly. “Either way, rationing should end soon enough.” 

“Well, we can only hope.” 

Zayn’s eyes fall on him, and suddenly Niall feels like a butterfly pinned to a corkboard, spread out to be examined. It’s an achingly familiar feeling. It’s the kind he used to get when Harry would stare at him with that lighthouse-like gaze. 

“Must’ve been horrible,” Zayn says. “The war.” 

He swallows heavily, and it stings in his throat. “Yeah. By the way, you’ve got,” he starts, gesturing at his own lips. “Crumbs.” 

Zayn brushes them away casually and looks impossibly beautiful doing so. If Niall had his head on right, he’d linger over that moment more, the way his eyes caught the light, the arch of his brows. 

As it is, though, all he can do is stare at his cereal and feel nauseous. The most painful memories always sink their teeth into him at the most inopportune moments. 

He gets to his feet and fills himself a glass of water from the sink - only the glass is slippery, and his hands are still trembling the slightest bit, so when he turns back and bumps into Zayn, the glass falls from his grip and shatters on the kitchen tiles. 

“Fuck!” Zayn hisses, jumping backwards. 

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” Niall swears, dropping to his knees and reaching for the broken shards. 

“Stop that!” Zayn says, alarmed. “You’ll cut yourself.” 

“I made the mess, I should clean it up-” 

“Don’t be stupid,” Zayn says, scowling down at him. Niall thinks for a second that he’ll tell him to leave it, that he’ll clean it up himself, but then Zayn reaches behind him and tosses him a broom. “Use this.” 

Niall catches it and gets up without thinking - but his knee gives a fierce, angry throb, and then he’s back down on his knees, face scrunched up in pain. 

“Shit, are you alright?” Zayn asks, sounding panicked. “You weren’t kidding about the bad luck.” 

Niall barely hears him; he just reaches a hand out and lets Zayn pull him upright until he can hobble to his chair. He props his bad leg up on another chair, one hand braced over the back of his knee. 

It hadn’t been a gunshot wound, after all, is what they found out after they landed that night almost a month ago. He’d realized it himself after the adrenaline and shock wore off, when he looked down and saw a rusty, three and a half inch piece of flak embedded in his knee, his entire pant leg soaked with blood. 

He passed out the moment he tried to get up for landing, and by the time he woke up, it was already late the next day, and they’d removed the metal. He blacked out from the pain too many times to count in the following days, the wound already in early stages of infection despite everything. The most terrifying moments were when he would wake up and hear the doctors talking over his body, murmuring to themselves about blood poisoning and amputation. 

In the end, it took over a week and a half for it to clear and for him to get to his feet. He hobbled around in crutches for another before he stopped having to down pain medication by what seemed like the bottle. A nurse had to accompany him to the toilet, for God’s sake. And it’ll likely be stiff and sore for the rest of his life, but that’s the kind of pain he could live with. 

The day he’d learned of Harry’s death and made his escape to the forest, he tore his stitches out running. It seemed inconsequential, then. Everything did. 

Zayn begins bustling around the kitchen, getting him a new glass of water and ice for his knee and fretting generally over him. 

“Do you need anything else?” he asks for the sixth time, looking just short of hand wringing.

“Actually,” Niall says lightly, pushing himself up in the chair, “that ring would be nice.” 

“Shit! Completely forgot. Wait here.” 

“‘M not moving,” Niall assures him, and waits. Paprika chooses that moment to slink into the kitchen and gaze up at him in concern from underneath the sink. 

“Hello, petal,” he sighs, suddenly weary down to his bones. “Are you hungry?” 

Paprika tilts her head to the side. Niall offers her a single Cheerio in the palm of his hand, which she only sniffs at. 

He rolls his ankle slowly, letting his head fall back and closing his eyes. His knee isn’t throbbing with pain anymore, which is a good sign, but he’ll have to ask Zayn to bring him his pain medication.

“Here it is,” Zayn says, coming into the kitchen again. “Slight complication though.” 

“What is it?” he asks, leaning his head back to look at him. 

“I still need your blood.” 

“Sorry?” Niall asks, caught off-guard. 

“For the ring, I need your blood. Not all of it, obviously.” 

Zayn hurries out of the room and then comes back in with a pocketknife. There’s something engraved in the blade - Gaelic, though Niall can’t tell what it says at this angle. He has a clear memory of the first witch drawing his blood. It hurt like a bitch. 

“This may hurt a bit,” Zayn warns. 

“I’ve heard.” 

Zayn pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and leans in closer, polishing the blade on the edge of his shirt. 

“Why d’you have glasses?” Niall asks, more to distract himself than anything. “Can’t you just fix your own vision?” 

“First of all, magic takes a lot of energy, Niall,” he says. The blade lies cool against his skin. “Especially healing magic. Besides, I haven’t been doing this long, and that kind of thing requires-” 

“How old are you, then?” 

“One hundred and eight five.” 

There’s a sudden, sharp sting as the blade breaks skin. A thin rivulet of blood runs down his arm, which Zayn collects in a vial. Niall looks away sharply. He’d never been squeamish about blood, not even as a kid, but nowadays, those kinds of things make his stomach turn. 

“Here,” Zayn says quietly. He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket, runs it quickly under the tap, and offers it to him. “Don’t worry, it’s clean.” 

Niall uses it to clean up the remaining blood and the cut, and then swipes the alcohol-soaked pad Zayn gives him over the wound, studying the grime in between the kitchen tiles all the while. Zayn turns away from him and busies himself with the ring and the blood, speaking quietly under his breath. Niall only catches a few words here and there - _chosaint, ádh breith, saol_. 

He hears the tap turned on. Zayn runs the ring underneath the water, and Niall watches the stream fade from pink to clear. 

When Niall fits it on his finger, it doesn’t physically _feel_ any different, but the tension that seeps out of him is immense. The ring means he’s safe. Or just as safe as everybody else, at the very least. 

He does manage to get some of Rika’s fur that evening when she’s curled up in his lap. She hisses and tries to bite his leg through his trousers when he does so, but he manages to pick her up by the scruff and dump her ungraciously on the floor to avoid injury. 

He presents it to Zayn. 

“Here you are,” he says, setting it on his desk. “Freshly harvested.” 

“Cheers. By the way, I’ll have dinner ready in a minute-” 

“Oh, I’m not - I won’t stay for dinner, it's alright. I think I’ve overstayed already,” he says, giving a light, awkward laugh. 

Zayn leans back in his chair and fixes him with that scrutinizing look. 

“Where are you planning to go?” 

“I’ve got a few friends around town.” 

Looking pointedly at Niall’s knee, Zayn says, “You’re in absolutely no shape for couch-hopping. You can stay here as long as you like, Niall.” 

He shakes his head _no_ immediately. “I couldn’t impose-” 

“Oh, come on. I get lonely around here.” 

Niall opens his mouth and then closes it. He thinks about going it alone, turning him down. It’s what he deserves - he deserves worse. 

“Just till you get back on your feet, if that makes you feel better,” Zayn says quietly, staring up at him. “No pressure.” 

Niall’s always been selfish. 

* * * 

Dinner is nothing more than a leftover hunk of soda bread and instant mashed potatoes, which Zayn apologizes for, but Niall devours it like it’s his last meal on earth. He’s eaten nothing more than SPAM and rubbery eggs and stale toast for the last three years; at this point he could eat boiled cabbage and still think it was the standard of decadence. 

Zayn isn’t much of a conversationalist. He keeps a heavy book lying in front of his plate as they eat; one hand holds a piece of bread and the other rests on the corner of the book, flipping the pages periodically. He’s very tight-lipped about himself, but he learns that Zayn moved here from Manchester, and before that, Bradford.

Niall insists on washing up afterwards, and Zayn lets him, disappearing from the kitchen again. Niall’s already taken to keeping an eye on doorways - the man walks so quietly you’d think he was sneaking up on you on purpose. 

Niall’s up to his elbows in suds when Billie Holiday’s voice begins floating through the air, sweet as a late summer’s afternoon. He rinses his hands off and dries his hands on the dish towel, knuckles pink and raw. 

_“Me, myself, and I are all in love with you...we all think you’re wonderful, we do.”_

Niall’s always loved music, but he doesn’t think he could have stomached it if it’d been Sinatra. 

_“It can’t be denied, dear...you brought the sun to us.”_

He finds him laying across the couch, head and feet propped up on the arms. He looks perfectly settled there, eyes half-closed as he reads his book. 

“I think I’ll turn in now,” Niall says. 

“So early?” Zayn frowns at him over the tops of his glasses. Rika is wreaking havoc on the side of the couch, dragging her claws against the already ragged surface. 

“Yeah. Thanks again for dinner.” 

“Don’t mention it,” Zayn tells him, flipping a page of his book “G’night, Niall.” 

Niall lays perfectly still in his bed and stares up into the darkness, listening to Billie’s muffled voice through the wall. He never falls asleep. 

* * * 

The days blur, hours bleeding one into the next into the other. He feels like a toy beginning to wind down, all his movements growing more and more sluggish. He’s so tired all the goddamn time. No matter how much his body begs for sleep, his mind won’t shut up. It spins 24/7, scraping him through unwanted memory after unwanted memory until he’s genuinely eyeing the window to see if it’s high enough. 

He wanders out of his room one night, drawn by the flicker of light he can see underneath the door. In the front room, the armchairs have been shoved to the walls, leaving the floorboards bare and dusty. Paprika is curled up beside a large, open book. Upon closer inspection, Niall realizes the writing is in a language he doesn’t recognize. 

Zayn is sitting cross-legged in front of the book. His glasses have slid down to the tip of his nose. 

“Can’t sleep?” he asks without looking up, and pats the floor beside him. “I can fix you something, if you like.” 

“Thanks. Maybe tomorrow, though.” 

Niall settles himself onto the floor, legs stretched out in front of him, back against the side of the armchair. His knee throbs painfully. Rika, taking this as an invitation, crawls into his lap and curls up there. Niall rests a hand in her fur, eyes still fixed on the book in front of Zayn. He recognizes the writing now; it’s ancient Irish. 

It was his first language. He’s a bit rusty with it because he hasn’t had reason to use it for years now, but it triggers a tidal wave of memories from when he was a kid. 

His mother had a faded, yellowed copy of the _Lebor Gabála Érenn_ \- a secret history of Ireland that traces the ancestry of their people back to a series of invasions. The fifth wave of people was made up of the _Tuatha Dé Danann_ \- faeries. They held control of Ireland for a hundred and twenty years. After the arrival of the Gaels, the _Tuatha_ retreated underground for centuries until - slowly, painstakingly - they filtered back into the real world and hid themselves in plain sight. All that remained of their existence in human awareness were myths and legends that were eventually dismissed as nothing but old wives’ tales.

_Fae_ like Zayn and Niall were born into this type of covert life, forced to refuse lasting relationships with humans of any kind under the threat of discovery. If they were found out - well, things like that aren’t so much of a risk these days. Hardly anyone would believe someone who claimed their neighbor was a mythical creature. 

Even so, humans are generally off-limits. It never bothers _fae_ as long as it’s all they ever know, especially since most of them think of themselves as a superior species. 

After the war - after Harry - Niall knows better. 

“What’re you doing?” he asks Zayn after a minute, scratching Rika gently behind the ears. 

“Working on that allergy tonic.”

Niall pulls another book lying on the floor towards him and flips open to the middle, only to find that it’s blank. He turns back a handful of pages until he sees one full of careful, dark script - handwritten. 

“Did you write all this?” 

Zayn glances over and gives the book a proud smile. “Yeah. I’ve been working on it for a while. It’s an encyclopedia. Read it, you’ll see.”

Niall flips to near the front of the book, and what he sees takes his breath away. 

Staring up at him is a full spread watercolor of the _ollphéist,_ the ancient sea serpent - slavering jaws spread wide, scales glittering underneath the choppy sea, eyes glowing ruby red. It’s terrifying. The rest of the pages are similar - a large illustration accompanied by a page or two of writing about the creature. 

Niall quickly locates his favorite - the _cú sídhe._ Zayn’s depicted a pack of them racing across the moors, white fur gleaming under the half-light of dusk, red ears pinned back against their skulls as they chase down a smudgy shadow on the horizon. The hounds are said to hunt on the eves of holy days, chasing wrongdoers into the ground until they can run no longer. Their howls foreshadow death for anyone who hears them. As a kid he always thought it was thoughtful that the hounds took the time to give their victims a warning. 

He goes carefully through the book, trying to commit the vivid colors and dark lines to memory, struggling to remember what his mother had told him about them years and years ago. A chilling sketch of a changeling. Selkies dipping through the water by a beach, just like the ones Niall had seen as a kid on their few trips to the coast. A _cat síth_ sitting on a fence, claws shining in the moonlight. The vicious, three-headed _Ellén Trechend,_ emerging from its rocky black cave. The shape-shifter, _púca,_ in a few of its various forms - a horse, a goat, a giant hare. 

He pauses on the _fetch_ , fingertips tracing the drawing of a man staring at what looks to be his reflection, only the twin’s mouth is stretched in an unnaturally wide smile. It makes him uneasy. A sighting of your double is at best a warning of bad luck to come, and at worst, an omen of death. It’s terrified him ever since he was little. 

Zayn leans to the right and drags a cardboard box Niall hadn’t noticed before towards him. He rummages around in it for a bit. “Cherry or orange?” 

“What?” 

“You seem like a cherry man. Here,” Zayn says, offering him a brightly colored packet. Niall stares at it uncomprehendingly. 

“What is this?” 

“Just try it,” Zayn says, ripping open his own packet. Niall watches as he tips his head back and pours what looks like orange powder straight into his mouth. “Delicious,” Zayn says, giving him a big smile. “C’mon, it’s not poison.” 

Gingerly, Niall tears open his own packet and stares at the bright red powder. “Are you sure this is safe to eat?” 

Zayn laughs. “It’s just candy, Niall. They only produce it in the States. I’ve got a cousin over there that ships it to me.” 

Niall dips a finger into the stuff and licks it experimentally. It’s tangy and sharp and sweet, and suddenly he understands why Zayn’s taken to just dumping the whole thing into his mouth all at once. 

“It helps keep me awake,” Zayn explains, crumpling the plastic in his fist and tossing it somewhere in the flat. “Caffeine does next to nothing for me, so sugar is the best alternative.” 

Niall eats the rest of it slowly, savoring every bit even though Zayn assures him he’s got plenty more. It reminds him of that day in the sweet shop, how Harry had spent so long poring over the chocolate creams and the licorice. It reminds him of what happened later that night - the bruising feel of Harry’s mouth on his own, the fear and anger in his eyes as he turned away from him, how he whispered apologies into Niall’s shoulder on the way home. Niall never should have been so cruel, so careless. Not that night, not ever. Not with him. 

The next night, Zayn makes him a sleeping draught. It smells and tastes suspiciously like chamomile tea, even though he insists it’s not. 

Of course, the only problem is it works. 

Niall’s never had nightmares like the ones he has now. Even when he was flying they weren’t so bad. He wakes up more often than not tangled in sheets that are soaked through with his own sweat. He doesn’t know if he makes any noise during them. He’s never able to read Zayn’s face when he asks Niall how he slept the night before and Niall lies to his face and says really well, thank you, it’s working like a charm. 

He shouldn’t have opened that half-finished encyclopedia, either. _Faeries_ haunt his dreams, weaving in between the shadows of his memories and scaring him half to death. He spends one night wandering through a hall of mirrors, repulsed by his reflections every time he sees them. They warp and twist with his movements, seeming to crowd closer and closer until he’s staring at himself. The man in the mirror looks hollowed-out. He looks deranged, he looks empty, he looks dead. 

The reflection smiles toothily at him. Niall wakes up that night choking on a scream. 

The icing on the cake is that his waking experience isn’t any better. Any loud noise sets him off - a door slamming shut, a pan being dropped, Rika sweeping something off the shelf with her tail. It drowns him in the distant sound of gunfire and then all of a sudden he can’t breathe and the plane’s rumbling underneath him and his heart’s beating out of his chest and there’s hellish fire flickering at the edge of his vision...

It takes him a while to calm down. Zayn is usually there to guide him through breathing, sitting with him wherever he collapses until enough oxygen gets to Niall’s brain that he gets properly embarrassed about it. 

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Zayn tells him. “Loads of soldiers are shaky when they come home. It’s called-” 

“I know what it’s bloody called,” Niall snaps, and then instantly regrets it. Zayn’s hand falls from his shoulder, and he looks up at him, shame-faced. “Sorry.” 

“Well,” Zayn says softly, picking at a stray thread in the carpet. He’s crouched down on the floor next to where Niall is slumped. “It’s common, is what I’m trying to say.” 

“Either way,” Niall huffs. “I feel like I’m going screwy.” 

“I’m sorry. I wish I could help you.” 

“You’ve helped more than enough,” he tells him, and means it down to his bones. Zayn gives him a hopeful smile.

* * *

Later that week, he comes home from work to find Zayn sitting cross-legged in the middle of the flat, furniture pushed to the sides of the room with the record player blaring deafeningly (Sinatra this time.) Zan’s _fae_ encyclopedia is propped up against a table leg, facing him, and there are dozens and dozens of loose papers strewn across the floor. Zayn has one in front of him now, and he’s sketching furiously, muttering nonstop to himself. 

“Zayn?” 

Zayn looks up sharply, eyes large. “Hello.”

Niall pauses and squints. 

“...Are you quite alright?” 

“I’m resplendent,” Zayn grins - he’s talking so fast Niall can barely decipher his words. 

“Resplendent,” Niall echoes slowly, shrugging his coat off and tossing his keys to the kitchen table. Then he spies the little tin case sitting on the table, the lid lying forgotten on the floor. There are nine white tablets sitting inside in two neat rows. He icks one up, peering at it closely. 

“Benzedrine?” he asks Zayn, glancing at him. “We used these in the Force to stay awake. What are you doing with them?” 

“Not quite benzedrine, no,” Zayn says, sniffing absently. 

Niall’s eyes slide to the papers on the floor and realizes they’re all the same sketch, over and over again. Zayn follows his gaze. 

“Oh yes,” he says, “I can never quite get it right. I’ve been trying for hours now and as you can see with not much success.” 

Niall walks over and turns the music down. He stares at the tablets, creeping curiosity and an insistent hunger to feel anything other than numb getting the best of him.

“Well, mind if I…” 

“Yes absolutely,” Zayn says earnestly, pushing his glasses up on his nose, and then returns to scratching furiously at the paper with his pencil. “Take it with water.” 

Niall eyes him warily and then goes into the kitchen to down two pills with a glass of water. He goes back to the front room to sit in one of the armchairs and waits. 

The first 30 minutes are fruitless, which is familiar. He spends it watching Zayn draw - some dragon-like creature, though he can’t tell for sure. 35 minutes in, he begins to fidget with a loose thread on the arm and pulls at it roughly, annoyed by its presence. Once he’s finally torn it free, he relaxes. 40 minutes in, he begins bouncing his leg rapidly, off-beat, not quite in time with the song even though he wants it to be, heart going too fast. 57 minutes and the walls start waving like seaweed - _Zayn,_ he tries to say, _what exactly is this?_ 60 minutes, and he starts hearing voices. 

“I thought you liked this song,” Harry says. 

Niall turns in his armchair to see Harry turn the volume up on the record player. 

Definitely not benzedrine. 

Harry looks back at him and smiles toothily, and it’s the sight of his smile that makes Niall’s heart trip sharply in his chest, red and raw and filled with longing. 

“But you’re...you’re dead,” he says. His mouth has gone cottony. 

“That was _ages_ ago. Keep up.” 

“...Where’ve you been, then?”

“Oh, you know. Here and there.” 

“They said you were killed.” 

“People say a lot of things.” 

“Do you know it was my fault?” 

“It isn’t as if you pushed me out of the plane.” 

“You don’t understand. I…” 

“Niall, it doesn’t matter _,_ ” Harry says dismissively, waving around a cigarette Niall doesn’t remember him lighting. “Blaming you isn’t going to bring me back from the dead. And I don’t want to talk about it any longer.” 

“So you _are_ dead.”

Niall watches him take a long drag, hair falling into his eyes. He’s wearing his dress uniform, all pressed clean edges and shining metal pins. 

Harry shrugs. “You said it, not me.” 

Niall gapes at him, at a loss, and then laughs for what feels like the first time in years, lungs unflattening like grass after you step on it. 

Something stings in the back of his throat - _I miss you_ and _I’m sorry_ and _please don’t leave me again, please -_ but he pushes it down. He feels electrified in Harry’s presence, like he always did, a live wire burning in the dark. There’s no time for his half-formed apologies. 

“Who’s he?” Harry asks, leaning closer and nodding at Zayn, still hunched over his papers. 

“A friend.” 

Harry takes a step closer, and here’s another familiar feeling - love, seeping out of his pores and into the air around them, pulsing in his fingertips, pooling on his tongue, warming him from the inside out. 

And one more - loss, like a poison. It branches over his skin, turning all the good parts of him to a weary watery blue sadness. 

Love and loss. Love and loss, and loss, and loss. 

Harry kisses him close-mouthed and soft. Niall holds still and breathes him in. 

When he pulls back, Harry’s eyes have gone pure white, no iris or pupil. Look at that, Harry says, only his voice is inside of Niall’s head instead of coming out of his mouth. In Harry’s mouth, his teeth glow like Christmas lights. 

He points at the window. Niall looks. 

Deep, bruised green sky, raspberry colored clouds and silver stars, the sun looming high in the sky in place of the moon, shining brilliantly. 

He doesn’t know how long he stares, transfixed by the colors and the cartoonish shape of the sun. His mouth is unbearably dry, heart jittery and frantic. Niall looks back at Harry and finds he’s disappeared. 

Niall tries a handful of times after that night to see Harry again, but in vain. Sometimes he can only hear his voice, and sometimes there’s nothing at all of him. And he can never sleep right afterwards, so he stops, and leaves the not-benzedrine to Zayn. 

_May 1945_

_Dublin, Ireland_

When the end of the war finally does come, he finds out in a roundabout way. There’s little to no celebration, something that feels impossibly wrong to him, even if he understands why. 

He’s back in the pub - the one he used to work at, before he left for Wickenby. Nothing’s changed, really. A couple of new faces, but Ed behind the bar recognizes him and he gets roped into half an hour of small talk that ends with an offer to talk to the owner to see if he can get Niall a job there again. He takes it without hesitation. 

“Did you hear about the demonstrations yesterday?” Ed asks, off-hand, swiping a rag over the counter again. 

Niall frowns. “Demonstrations?” 

Suddenly, there’s a commotion behind him - a group of men are huddling around a table, and people begin getting up and wandering towards them, murmuring under their breath to each other. Niall joins them after a minute, curiosity getting the better of him. 

Spread across the table is today’s edition of _The Irish Times_ . The headline declares, _PEACE TO-DAY IN EUROPE._ The pictures of seven different people are arranged in the shape of a _V_ over the front page - some of them generals Niall recognizes. The late President Roosevelt, Churchill, Stalin, Eisenhower...

“How the fuck did they get this past the censors?” someone asks, but no one says anything. Niall’s eyes slide over the page, catching snippets here and there. 

_Total Surrender by Reich._

_2,094 Days of War._

_Surrender of Airfield._

_World a Valley of Sorrow._

There’s a whole section about the apparent riots in College Green last night, the demonstrations Niall had no clue were going on. And a quote at the end of it from someone at the scene:

“ _Trinity has insulted the country by burning the Tricolour. We don’t mind Trinity flying the Union Jack, because we all know the outlook of these people, but what we do object to is the flying of a number of flags with the Irish flag insultingly on the bottom.”_

Niall wishes he could hunt the bastard down and wrench his head right off. He can’t even fathom being upset over flags when the war is _over_ , when all those soldiers finally get to go _home._ Enraged, he pulls his coat on and storms out into the cold.

Zayn is nowhere to be found when he arrives home. He heads straight for the radio and slumps in an armchair, scanning the channels for news - any kind of announcement - but of course there is none. Even though tens of thousands of Irish had fought for this victory, had spilled their blood for it, even though Belfast was bombed to bits. Nothing. 

He stares angrily into space for what seems like hours, radio static filling the room. There should be parades in the streets. There should be music, and drinking, and celebration. He should be celebrating with his friends right now. _Harry_ should be celebrating right now. 

Guilt washes over him again, just as powerful as the first time. He should’ve held him back. He should’ve saved him. He could have stopped the bleeding, made an emergency landing. Why did he listen to Harry’s addled plan? Why did he sit there like an idiot and _watch_?

On impulse, he rips a blank page out of the back of one of Zayn’s volumes and begins to write. 

_Dear Harry_

_It’s over. I wish you could’ve been here for it. I suppose we would all still be at Wickenby, if what happened hadn’t. Can you imagine it? We would have drunk ourselves silly. I bet that’s what they’re all doing out there. And they’ll pack up the place and everyone will take the train home. And I might’ve gone home with you and met your family like you wanted me to._

_I know I shouldn’t dwell on that. It’s not right for the soul Zayn says, whatever that means. But I can’t help it. It’s all I ever think about._

_Stepping out of the base for the last time and knowing you never had to drop another bomb again would have felt like getting out of prison for you, I’m sure. Wish I could have seen that kind of relief on your face._

_I can’t stop shivering here. The streets always smell like piss. I would have liked to have shown you Dublin, at some point. I think you’d like it._

_Do you remember the day we met? Christ it was so long ago now I barely remember it myself. I think I liked you the moment I met you although you annoyed me more than anything. You made the most horrid jokes I’d ever heard. I realized later you just wanted to get people to like you and you were doing it in the most heartfelt way you knew how, but someone should have told you._

_Well, there are a couple of things I wish I could have said to you before everything went to shit, some of it things I probably would never have had the guts to say out loud, but here it is._

_For starters, you’re the first real friend I’ve ever had. And I would have fixed that broken watch of yours if you asked. There’s a hole in the armpit of your favorite shirt that you still haven’t noticed. I know it was you that stole Louis’ cigarettes because I saw you take them from his bunk, you dirty thief._

_~~And I want you to know~~ _ _I’m sorry. About everything. You don’t know it was my fault, but it was. And I’m so sorry, Harry. More than you can imagine. I’m sorry._ ~~_I’ll always wish it was me that_ ~~

~~_Your friend,_ ~~

_Yours,_

_Nialler_

* * * 

Niall brings his right foot down again, hard, and it sounds like a gunshot against the floor. Rika watches him warily from her perch on the kitchen table. The cockroach scuttles against the toe kicks, out of sight. He sticks his foot there, tapping it wildly in hopes of squashing the bug. 

“Fucking-” he straightens up in defeat, pushing his hair back from his forehead. This is the third one he’s seen today, and the sight of them makes his skin crawl like nothing else. He looks to Rika. 

“Shouldn’t you be taking care of this?”

The front door closes behind Zayn. He’s leafing through a handful of mail. 

“Niall, this one’s for you,” he says, extending a thin envelope towards him. Niall takes it quickly, skimming over the back. He’d gone back to Debbie’s apartment a while ago to request that she forward any mail to Zayn’s apartment, but this is the first letter he’s gotten since. 

When he sees it’s from Wickenby, he rips it open so fast he slices his index finger on the edge of the paper. 

_“Shit,”_ he hisses, sticking it in his mouth. He unfolds the letter with his other hand and sinks down into a chair at the kitchen table to read. In the front room, Zayn whistles quietly, but all Niall can hear is the nervous thrum of his own heart. 

The handwriting is shaky and light, and some of the page’s been redacted by censors. 

_Niall -_

_I can’t believe I’m writing these words. The whole thing feels like a bad dream. See, we were_ ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ _I still don’t know how it could have happened. There were_ ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ _You remember how_ ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ _It was_ ⬛⬛⬛⬛ _It_ ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ _right in the engine and the_ ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ _Me and Bressie were lucky enough to_ ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ _We landed a few thousand yards away from each other but Jesus Christ I still heard_ ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ _The poor fellow couldn’t help it._ ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ _got him I think because when I eventually got back to base there_ ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ _came across me_ ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ _Well I suppose that makes us the_ ⬛⬛⬛ _of our crew. I’m sorry I didn’t have better news to share. I miss everyone terribly, including you. I wish you hadn’t left, though I suppose it was for the best considering what happened to the rest of us. They’ve assigned me to Radley’s crew because James is sick but they all hate me. I wish_ ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ _, if I’m being honest._

_It is looking like this thing might be over soon after all. Please visit as soon as you can if I am still alive._

_Your friend,_

_Louis_

For a long time, Niall stares uncomprehendingly at the paper. He rereads it over and over, trying to make sense of the story, trying to guess what lies underneath the blacked-out lines. 

_No word of him...that makes us...better news to share...what happened to the rest of us...if I’m being honest._

Confusion, then panic. Then understanding. 

He drops the paper like it’s burned him and gets to his feet too fast, vision going fuzzy with his dizziness. He’s out the door before he’s thought it all the way through - no coat, nothing - Zayn’s confused call echoing after him as he stumbles down the stairs and out into the cold. 

The street is still buzzing with people this early in the night. He pushes through the crowd, passing between alternating bars of darkness and yellow light as he goes, while the sodium lights wash all the color out of passerby’s faces, making them seem alien and cold. 

Horrible visions keep flashing through his mind, putting together the pieces: Liam burning to death in the pilot’s pit - Bressie’s scream as he hit the ground - Fionn panicking, struggling to escape from the rear gun - Louis crawling into the mud to wait for death -

The nausea overtakes him. He pauses to duck into a back alley and vomits, his body shuddering with the force. He can hear the faint sounds of rats scuttling around in the dark, away from the contents of his stomach and then towards it. He stumbles away and wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve, still sick to his stomach, eyes beginning to burn. 

The first thing he does in the pub is make a beeline for the bathroom. He rinses out his mouth with the tap water for ages, but when he’s finished he can still taste the sourness along the ridges of his teeth. He splashes his face with water and then dries it on the hem of his shirt. 

The grimy mirror and fluorescent lights do him no favors. His eyes are bloodshot, skin pale and sickly-looking. He looks fit to be in hospice. 

Quantitatively, he doesn’t know how much he drinks that night. The bartender keeps throwing him worried looks, but he doesn’t catch them. He doesn’t notice anything but the glass in his hands. 

He doesn’t know why he never spared a thought for what would happen to his crew. In his mind they were untouchable as long as he and his bad luck were out of the picture, and once the war ended officially he assumed there was nothing to worry about, though of course, of _course_ that wasn’t true. There’s at least a two-week lag to any mail. He hadn’t even written to them once. 

He stays there for a long time, watching the lights grow blurrier and blurrier. People come and go, the chatter in his ears ebbing like the tide. His mind, for some reason, is fixated on the memory of Harry’s voice - slow and syrupy, the way his heartbeat feels now, always like they had all the time in the world. He can almost hear him speaking quiet in his ear, relating some outlandish story Jack had told him the day before, and it slows his heartbeat a little. 

Niall remembers thinking, foolishly, that after it was all over they’d stay together. At least live near, same country, maybe even in the same city. Something he could cling on to. Life is always so much fucking lonelier than you think it’ll be. 

Realistically he knows that the death of his friends are in some ways no different than any of the other millions in the war. They were there one minute and gone the next. Threads cut short. And all of his wildest dreams - even his slightly more realistic imaginings of a life next door to Harry and Taylor - reduced to dust in the blink of an eye. He feels like a little kid, sometimes, marvelling at the permanency of death, cursing it, wrestling with it. Not understanding how it could be. 

It doesn’t feel like so long ago that they were sitting in that briefing room for the first time, looking around nervously and scared out of their wits that they were going to be blown into bits in an hour or two. Louis never looked scared, though. He never dared. Liam was the captain, sure, but if it wasn’t for Louis making dirty jokes and cursing out every enemy plane they approached they’d all have fallen apart the second things got frightening. 

_Thank God he made it,_ Niall thinks, squeezing his eyes shut, even though it feels unfair to the rest of them. _Thank God he’s alive._

“Niall?” 

He turns his head slowly, neck sore. 

Zayn is standing there with his overcoat pulled up tight around his throat. The tip of his nose is red with cold. He looks worried. Niall can’t really tell, because his face goes a bit swimmy after a couple seconds. 

“I’ve been looking for you all over,” Zayn says in a low voice, hand going to Niall’s elbow. “You’re worrying me to death, d’you know that? C’mon - careful, now.” 

Niall’s eyelids are heavy. He feels so sluggish, and so, so tired. 

Zayn keeps his hand on him even when they get on the street and he manages to get his feet properly underneath him. Zayn’s coat smells like cigarettes and cat fur. Niall leans closer in an effort to stay warm. 

He tilts his head up to look at the stars as they stumble down the sidewalk, breath billowing out of his mouth like smoke - and finds there are none. It’s the city, of course he can’t see any stars. Not like he could at Wickenby. 

He stares imploringly up at the sky, as if the haze will part and give him what he wants. Tears brim in his eyes. He just wants to look up and see a clear fucking sky.

His mouth opens of his own accord. 

“I killed him.” 

They’ve reached the flat. Zayn’s in the middle of pulling his gloves off but stops perfectly still where he stands. Niall doesn’t meet his eyes. 

There’s a long beat of silence before Zayn finally asks, “who?” 

“My friend,” he says, throat closing up. He twists his ring around his finger. “I killed him.” 

When he finally speaks again, Zayn’s voice is placating. 

“Niall, you’re drunk. Let’s get you to bed,” he says, putting his hand on Niall’s shoulder, but Niall shakes him off roughly. He’s staring at the place where the wall meets the floor, biting down hard on his tongue to distract himself and to keep the tears from flowing. He won’t make a scene. He won’t. He’s trying. 

“Niall,” Zayn says again. There’s a long, pregnant pause. “Are you sure you want to tell me this?” 

Niall lifts his head, finally, to look him in the face. 

“I have to,” he says, voice trembling. “I have to tell someone.” 

Zayn is quiet for a long moment. 

“What happened?” 

He closes his eyes and scrubs a hand over his face. The palm of his hand is freezing. 

“I lost my - my coin before our flight,” he says, very quietly. “I didn’t notice. Harry caught a bullet in his stomach on the way back. He had to jump and hope the wrong people didn’t find him on the ground. A couple weeks later they said he’d been killed in action.” 

He’d thought about it for long enough in the purgatory that was waiting for news of his death, but it hurts the same every time. The only person at fault is _him_. He caused Harry’s death. His negligence. His failure, his oversight.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “So he’s dead, and it’s my fault.” 

“I’m sorry,” Zayn says. “I’m really, really sorry, Niall. But that’s not your fault.” 

He blinks up at him. “What?” 

“How do you know it was because of you not having the coin?” 

“I don’t bring it with me and then all of a sudden my best friend is shot through his fucking guts on a routine operation when we’ve already cleared Germany. I think it’s a pretty simple-” 

“There’s no way of telling, Niall. The charm doesn’t make you or your loved ones invincible. It just negates the effects of a condition you’ve had since birth.”

Niall scoffs, eyes watery. “You’re saying it would have happened either way.” 

“Well, it could have. And - just listen to me,” he says, holding up a hand to stop him from interrupting, “I didn’t know Harry. But obviously he meant a lot to you, and if you were friends, I don’t think he would have wanted you tearing yourself to pieces over this either way. I think he would have forgiven you.” 

Niall rubs his eyes hard with the heels of his hands, his chest deflating. He thinks of how Liam had tried to comfort him, afterwards, how he’d brushed him off so carelessly, how cold he’d been to everyone. He was so wrapped up in his own head that he barely said goodbye to half of them, when he finally left. It’s the kind of selfishness Harry would have detested. 

It hits him again, then, that they’re all _dead_. 

“Oh my God,” he mutters, eyes shut, and he must list to the side, because Zayn rushes up and braces him, tries to pull him towards the nearest chair. Niall shoves his hands off him and stumbles towards his room, vision going fuzzy again. 

“Niall-” 

“Fuck _off_ !” he says suddenly, whirling on him. Zayn stops still in his tracks, eyes betraying his surprise. Frustration and anger well up in Niall’s lungs, pouring out of him like smoke. “Just leave me alone for two _bloody_ seconds, you’re not my mother, Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” he hisses, wrenching open the bedroom door. 

But then he slams it behind him, leaving him with an empty, dark room, and the anger begins to ebb until there’s nothing at all left behind. He hasn’t felt this angry since he was a kid. Maybe it’s always been dormant, pooling beneath his skin like gasoline waiting for a spark. 

Jesus Christ, he wishes he was dead. 

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


In retrospect, maybe Zayn should have said something about it from the get-go. He never stopped Niall from drinking, not outright. He took care of him. He stood in the doorway, frowning, while Niall heaved into the toilet. Left him water on the nightstand. Even if he wanted to, what could he do? Reprimand him? Confiscate the whiskey? He’s wasn’t Niall’s dad, for fuck’s sake. 

His dad. That gives him a good laugh, one night. The apple never falls very far. 

(Bobby Horan never hit him while he was drunk. He never hit Niall’s mother, either. It was something Niall used to be grateful for.)

He thinks about Harry a lot, usually before he’s about to pass out. Even when he’s not focusing on thinking about him he’s thinking about him. 

There’s one memory in particular, one he comes back to, over and over, the way a kid can’t help but tongue at a wiggly tooth till it falls out. 

In it, Harry stands across the room chatting with someone. They’re inside the White Hart, late in the night; violent thunderstorms have grounded all flights, and they’re celebrating another day gone by. Harry is wearing a pair of jeans and a thick blue sweater he brought from home; his hair falls in his eyes, soft and rain-damp. He’s twisting the rings on his fingers round and round, the metal reflecting warm yellow light. He’s smiling at Niall from across the room with dimples in his cheeks and laughter about to bubble out of his mouth. He’s safe. He’s whole. He’s - 

_What would he say if he saw me like this,_ he thinks, and then rolls over onto his stomach, face smashed into the pillow. _What would he think of me?_

Well, it’s not like it matters what Harry would think or say or do, because Harry’s dead. 

He drags blindly through his shifts at the pub, barely registering the change from one day to the next. There are blank spaces in his memory so empty and wide it almost scares him. He hates being conscious, hates having to be on his feet all night, hates his coworkers and his boss and the people that come in and sometimes Zayn. Every thought he has is tinged with some sort of pain - guilt, regret, grief, tangled up in memories of his dead friends. He finds it’s better not to think at all. 

Things come to a head around week three. 

“Fuck,” Niall hisses, slamming the cabinet under the sink shut. The whiskey that usually sits there is gone. He hadn’t noticed how fast he was going through it. His eyes slide over the apartment, skull throbbing. It’s a horrible headache that hasn’t let up since he got home, and it’s killing him. Going down to the store would take far too long, he just needs a little bit, anyway, and it can’t wait. 

He starts at the couch, checking underneath it, in between the cushions, anyplace Zayn might have a little something hidden. Rika watches him from the dining table, unblinking. There’s nothing behind the TV, in the bookshelf…

That’s when he spots Zayn’s encyclopedia lying open in the front room.

It’s him. It’s a full-page portrait of him. In it, his head is tipped back, mouth opened wide with laughter, hair falling over his forehead. On the next page, at the top, in careful, curling handwriting, it says _CLURICHAUN._ Beneath that are more pencil sketches of him - his profile, him sitting in the armchair with Rika in his lap, eating a bowl of cereal in the kitchen, silhouetted in sunlight. 

Niall’s eyes slide back to the painting. He can’t recall a time in his life he’s truly felt the way that painting of him looks - carefree, happy. It makes something pinch, deep inside of him - bitterness - and it’s enough to distract him from the book and focus back on his search. 

Zayn’s bedroom door is open, dark and inviting. Light seeps from the crack at the bottom of the bathroom door, where Zayn is singing quietly as he showers. He reckons he has enough time. 

He’s not supposed to go inside. Zayn had been very clear to leave his things alone. 

He yanks open every drawer he can find, rifling through undergarments and shirts alike in the dark, heaving open his wardrobe, behind the bed. His breath comes uneven, shallow. His hands shake, not just with weakness, but with the fear of being caught. He knows Zayn would try to intervene, and he can’t have that. He only needs a bit to get rid of this headache, slow his heart down a bit. Just a -

Niall’s fingers slide against something cold at the back of the dresser. He pulls out a silver flask. Moonlight from the window bounces over the metal, transfixing him. 

His eyes catch on what else lies on top of the dresser - bundles of dried leaves, the waxy stub of a candle. And a framed photograph, yellowed with age, capturing Zayn standing between an older woman and a young girl, each bearing a striking resemblance to him. 

“Looking for something?” 

The flask falls from Niall’s hands and hits the floor as he whirls around, eyes gone round. His heart’s in his throat, dread and shame making it hard to speak, to force any words out. 

Zayn stands in the doorway with nothing but a towel wrapped around his hips, hair dripping wet. The room is so quiet he can hear each time a droplet hits the carpeted floor. He feels 12 again, caught red-handed in his father’s liquor cabinet. 

Zayn speaks again, voice splitting the darkness like an axe. “What are you doing in here?” 

Niall cracks the knuckle of his index finger, mouth dry. “Nothing. I was just…” 

Zayn’s eyes fall to the flask on the floor, and his eyes go hard. “Jesus, Niall.” 

“I know. I’m sorry, I-” 

“You want a drink, you go to the fucking bar.” 

“I understand.” 

“This isn’t a...” Zayn stops short, eyes burning into Niall’s. “You need _help_. Do you understand that? You need serious fucking help.” 

Niall doesn’t say anything. He fidgets, trying to crack the knuckles on his other hand. Maybe he’ll just break his finger instead. That’d be preferable to the conversation he’s having now. Distract Zayn, get him to take care of him like always, make everything go back to normal again. 

“Shit,” Zayn mutters, coming over and picking up the flask. He leans past Niall and sets it back on the dresser. He’s really angry, Niall can tell. He can almost feel it coming off him in waves. 

“Who gave you permission to go through my things, anyway?” Zayn asks, pulling back to look him in the face. Niall glances guiltily to the mess he’s made in Zayn’s bedroom, and then down at his feet. 

“What, you just - I offer you a place in my home and you repay me like this? Raiding my bedroom for a drink?” 

Niall’s face grows hot, hyper-aware of the mess of clothes he’s left on the floor. “I’ve been paying my share,” he murmurs. 

“You’ve had the job for two bloody weeks, Niall. You’ve _been_ here over a month,” Zayn hisses, crowding closer, and Niall flinches away. “I’ve never asked you to pay for that. But if I ever find you in here again, that’s it. Got it?” 

Niall nods quickly, gritting his teeth so hard it’s a miracle they don’t crumble into dust. 

“Would you excuse me?” he asks, eyes flickering up to meet Zayn’s and then falling back down. Zayn steps aside silently and Niall flees, heading straight for his own room. 

He pulls his duffel down from the top of the wardrobe. Carefully, he begins folding his things in. 

“What are you doing?” Zayn asks from the doorway, sounding confused. Niall ignores him. He pulls on his coat and slings the bag over his shoulder, eyes averted. 

Zayn’s hand lands on his arm, and he flinches hard. “Niall. What the hell are you doing?” 

“I’m leaving.” 

“Was it - because of what I said? Niall, I didn’t mean to-” 

“No, I’ve overstayed my welcome. Don’t pretend I haven’t.” 

Zayn flounders, looking lost. “You don’t - shit, you don’t have to _go_. I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“Thank you for everything, Zayn. I’m serious. I don’t think I can ever repay you. But you shouldn’t have to put up with me - with this any longer. I’m sorry you ever had to.” 

Zayn finally seems to realize he’s not joking. His hands fall away, and it feels like an anchor being lifted. Here he goes, drifting out to sea again, here he goes. His head throbs harder than ever. 

“Where will you go?” Zayn asks quietly. 

Niall thinks of the money in his wallet. It should be enough. It’ll have to be enough. He can’t stay in this city any longer; it’s eating at him from the inside out, gnawing at his bones like acid. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to call this country home again. 

“London,” he says. 

  
  


_July 1945_

_London, England_

  
  


Niall thought the war was the hard part. After everything went to shit, he thought, _the worst has to be over._

He was wrong. Living is, unfortunately, much harder than dying. 

He slides out of bed, head spinning. The room is hazy with dull morning sunlight, dust motes floating through the air, and the memory crashes into him before he even has a chance to catch his breath. 

Waking up late. Harry watching him sleep. Dark hair falling over green eyes. A worried smile. A golden coin.

_Ops are on tonight._

The image of Harry’s face fades away in his head. It’s been two years since their first real flight, two years since he wished for the first time that he could touch Harry the way he wanted to. 

Now, Harry lives in sepia. Not just Harry - the whole crew, immortalized where they knelt in the grass of the football field, sweaty and pink with happiness. When the sunlight hits just right Niall can’t see them under the picture frame’s glass, and all he sees instead is his own reflection. He never looks too long. 

The air is heavy with the promise of rain as he heads towards Petherton Road. This area was bombed three separate times over the course of the war, resulting in 11 destroyed houses and rubble everywhere you look. His group’s supervisor still hasn’t told them whether they’ll end up rebuilding after the place is cleared, but it doesn’t bother Niall much either way. You can’t walk five feet in any direction in London without stumbling over a job like this. 

Niall checks in with the site supervisor and then heads to the spot he thinks needs the most help.

“Rough night?” Charlie says by way of greeting, pausing to wipe ash off his forehead. He’s from around here - took a shine to Niall on his first day and decided he’d be friends with him. Niall would never say it out loud, but he’s grateful he’s got at least one mate here, even if it’s just a kid who can’t be more than 17. 

“You look dead tired,” Charlie continues, tossing a chunk of rubble behind him. Niall helps him tug out another piece, fingers already stained black. He resists the urge to wipe them on his pants. 

“Yeah, well,” he grunts, and squints up at the building. It’s not half-bad - just one big corner that’s been blown off. The support beams look pretty intact. “You don’t look so lovely yourself.” 

Charlie glares up at him with a streak of soot on his face. 

At their lunch break, they sit on a pile of concrete and eat ham sandwiches sent by Charlie’s mother. Niall had been violently embarrassed when Charlie pointed out that Niall never ate and offered to bring him food from home. It’s not that he can’t _afford_ a meal. He can. He just doesn’t feel like it. 

He eats to appease Charlie, who’s a mother-hen if Niall ever saw one. He knows Niall’s come from the war, and while he doesn’t treat him like fragile goods, he takes care not to talk about it. And he always feeds the cadaver dogs the meat from his sandwiches if they come around looking for some - just to make their work a little more bearable, he tells Niall. 

They work tirelessly till the sun goes down, and then he makes the trek back home alone, passing a grocery store, a boarded up flower shop, a taped off street with a sign that says _DANGER: UNEXPLODED BOMB._ In London, something sits a little more comfortably in his chest. Maybe it’s because the war is acknowledged here - how could it not be - while in Dublin it was glossed over, spoken about in quiet voices. Maybe it’s because it reminds him of - whatever. He doesn’t think about him these days if he can help it. 

Tonight’s dinner is a bowl of instant mashed potatoes. He’s got packets and packets of it sitting in the kitchen cupboard, because it’s cheap and it’s easy. It’s better than the slop they used to eat at Wickenby, but not by much. He sits by the window with the paper and listens to a neighbor’s radio. Stray chords of music float through the air to him. 

A boy threw himself off a building last Sunday - Alan Kemp, 19 years old. Niall stares unseeingly at the tiny piece in the newspaper for a long, long time. The memorial is this week. 

There’s a spider weaving its web in the corner of the window, strands of translucent silk crisscrossing back and forth. A light breeze coming through the open window disrupts it, and the spider floats down on its strand, blown off-course. After it dangles there for a second, its dark, crooked legs wave around until it climbs back up quickly to the half-finished web, resuming its dance between the sides of the window. 

By the time Niall falls asleep in the chair, a large, glittering web hangs beneath the moonlight. 

Strange shapes haunt his dreams. The Halifax warps and shifts beneath his feet. He wanders through the empty body of it, stumbling down to the pit, to the hatch, which swings wide open. Without checking, he knows that he’s alone. He steps closer, hands braced on the sides, looking down at the earth rushing by underneath, the stars glittering in a dark blue sky. 

When he finally turns around, Harry is standing there with tears streaming down his face. 

His heart goes double-time with unexplained shame, cold sweat running down his temple. He works his jaw for a second, as if he’s forgotten how to talk. 

“Harry?” he gets out eventually, and it sounds muffled. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry chokes out. He looks up at him with shining green eyes. “But it’s only _fair_.” 

His hands meet Niall’s chest and push, and then he’s falling through empty air, falling, falling, falling

Niall wakes with a jolt, heart in his throat. Early morning light sets the spider web in the open window on fire. Golden dew drops hang from each thread. Goosebumps rise on his skin. 

He drags himself to the bathroom, vomits, and then brushes his teeth for nearly five minutes straight. When he spits, bloodied saliva swirls down the drain. He splashes his face with water and scrubs it dry with a threadbare hand towel. His eyes are still swollen and red, and the person in the mirror is so repulsive to him that he just wants to close his eyes and never have to open them again - but closing his eyes is always worse. Flashes of Harry standing in front of him still play in the darkness, the wind pulling at his body, his tear-filled eyes gazing at Niall as the stars glitter like knife points in the background. 

Niall braces himself on the edge of the sink, trying to guide himself through breath after breath. He already escaped the war with his life. Asking for anything more - even just one night of dreamless sleep - feels like asking for too much, like greed. 

He walks to Petherton Road. Charlie says hello to him. He stares at the mound of rubble. He works his body half to death. He tries so hard to think of nothing at all. He eats a sandwich that tastes like cardboard. He gives half of it to a cadaver dog that comes trotting by when Charlie isn’t looking. Dust coats his pants, his jacket, his face, his lungs. His knee aches. He walks to the flat. He stirs the potato powder into a bowl of lukewarm water. He pushes it around with a fork and then changes his mind. He dumps it all in the trash. He steps in the shower and stands there. The taste of ash clings to his mouth. The thought that he might be tasting someone’s remains brings him to his knees in front of the toilet, dripping wet and naked, emptying his already hollow stomach. He can’t get the sourness out of his mouth. He goes to bed. He tries hard not to sleep, afraid of what it brings. Exhaustion overcomes him. He dreams of falling out of a plane. He wakes up early in the morning. 

He walks to Petherton Road. 

_August 1945_

Niall spends a lot of his free time standing perfectly still in doorways and staring into the distance, lost in thought, so he notices things he wouldn’t usually, like the house spiders that outnumber him by an alarming ratio. 

One night, he does something strange he couldn’t understand for the life of him afterwards. 

He was gazing at the web in the corner of the window, drunk out of his mind, when he thought to himself, _spiders should have friends. It isn’t right to be alone._

So he went around the flat for an hour until he found another spider in the kitchen, trapped it between a glass and a dish towel, and released it near the window spider. The two skirted around each other for a minute, and then - to Niall’s horror - began to fight. It was an impossibly surreal moment - early morning sunlight bathing the two as they grappled with their countless limbs, twitching and rolling. 

It stopped after a while. One of the spiders - presumably dead - hung tangled in the web, while the other began rolling it up in thread. 

Niall took his shoe off and smashed the both of them against the window. 

_September 1945_

It gets worse every day. He misses Harry like a limb. A phantom presence, two steps behind, fading laughter echoing in the back of his throat. He starts drinking his tea with honey in it like Harry used to, and the taste lingers in his mouth till it turns sour. Pieces of him cling to Niall’s life like smoke after the fire. 

The tide rolls in. He closes his eyes. 

The tide rolls out. Empty bottles line the table. 

He stands on the edge of a precipice, and he pines for the bottom of the canyon the way a child cries for its mother. Fire fills the room while a piano plays, ivory keys and hidden smiles and a pain that ebbs out of him like the sea but never quite leaves him all the way. 

He would have said it, if he had another chance. He would have said everything. 

_October 1945_

It’s funny how during the war all he ever thought about was making it to the next day but when it’s over all he wants to do is die. The worst part, though, is that sometimes he feels nothing at all. It’s terrifying to be sitting there and suddenly feel entirely hollowed out, just like someone had sliced him open and scooped out all his innards. It’s a gaping, cavernous thing in the middle of his chest, cold and dark and so fucking empty it scares him. He’s beginning to think there are some things you just can’t get better from. 

_November 1945_

His dead friends follow him endlessly, too - an echo of them in every move he makes, every word he speaks. It’s too easy to fall into the rabbit hole of memories. All he has to do is close his eyes and Fionn’s smiling face appears, Liam’s boyish laughter thrumming in his ears. If the room is too quiet he imagines he can hear their voices murmuring somewhere far away. It’s torture like hell could never dream of. 

_December 1945_

After months of using alcohol to put himself to sleep, he caves and goes down to a local pharmacy. The instructions on the bottle say one pill, but two seem to do the trick after some time, and three have him passing out the moment his head hits the pillow. He doesn’t mind it - after all, unconsciousness is his preferred state of existence - and the dreams that come to him are more strange than scary these days. Of course, there’s always the odd one that wakes him up screaming, like playing Russian roulette every time he closes his eyes. 

He dreams almost all of December away, lost in the haze of alcohol and sleeping pills. He sinks into a pool of black water and finds a fiery plane wreck at the bottom, grainy sand between his toes. He plays a guitar with no strings. He pilots a Halifax towards Germany while frost creeps up the glass and over his eyes. He lays calmly in an empty grave while his crewmates take turns burying him, passing the shovel back and forth in a complicated pattern he struggles to make sense of. He takes a cadaver dog for a walk at midnight while thick indigo fog obscures the moon. 

He reads a book upside down while lying on the floor, and a familiar hand without a body attached to it hovers above it and turns the pages for him, silver rings shining quietly in the firelight. He watches a plant grow in real time, sprouting up through the dark earth and unfurling. Green things grow toward the sun. 

He goes swimming in the ocean and the salt burns his eyes. Far off, on the horizon, he sees an airplane coming in from the east, one of its wings burning - a shining, fiery beacon of death and destruction, as beautiful as the sunset behind it. The scratch of a record player fills his ears, and the idea of Harry - not his image, or voice, just the idea of him - strikes Niall like a bolt of lightning, and all of a sudden he remembers he’s dead. 

Sometimes his dreams feel like a patchwork of conversation he heard on the street overlayed with images he can’t remember seeing. A jar of bright red jam speaks animatedly to the knife his dream hand dips in it ( _“Did you hear about Frank and Olivia? It’s such a shame, they made such a lovely couple.”_ ). 

“Niall,” Fionn whispers, staring up at him with wide, glazed eyes. Niall presses a hand to the gunshot wound in his chest, pale skin painted in scarlet. 

“Yeah?” 

“Niall, I’m scared,” Fionn admits. His face is ashen, lips going gray already, hair matted to his forehead with sweat. His hand twitches where it lays in the lush grass. “Will you stay with me?” 

“Yeah,” Niall says. He can feel a scream building in the back of his throat. “I’ll stay, Fionn. ‘Course I’ll stay.” 

Fionn says something else, but it’s so quiet Niall doesn’t catch it. He glances up at the blindingly bright sky, the golden sunshine, the field rippling with wind. Five hundred yards away, the Halifax burns, tar-black smoke bleeding into the blue sky. The heat stings Niall’s eyes, makes him sweat. 

Fionn’s ragged breaths stop coming. He looks back down. 

His eyes are closed, the dark sweep of his eyelashes in stark contrast to the color of his face. Niall lets his head slide gently from his thigh and onto the blood-soaked grass. 

The room is quiet. Darkness shrouds his senses, and he blinks awake slowly, heart still thudding against his ribs. He sits up in bed and stares at his hands, but he can’t see anything in the dark. 

_It was just a dream,_ he reminds himself, until he remembers it wasn’t really. If anything, it was better than reality, because Fionn burnt to death in a falling airplane instead of dying in the arms of a friend in the middle of a beautiful field. 

Without thinking twice about it, he slides out of bed and treads carefully out of his apartment, leaving it unlocked behind him. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he makes his way to the stairwell and climbs flight after flight until he reaches the door to the roof. 

Wind whips at his body, at his hair, beckoning him out to the edge. He looks down at the street below, at the glittering city sprawling beneath his bare feet. 

Alan Kemp, 19, who jumped to his death, whose life was nothing more than a footnote in a London newspaper, must have seen a view just like this one. 

Harry’s pale face comes to mind, his torn up voice from an unforgotten dream saying, _it’s only fair._

He won’t do it. He won’t, not when he’s been so lucky to- 

He pauses.

Lucky to what? If the rest of his days will be as bleak and empty as these, he doesn’t even want them. 

“It’s freezing out here.” 

Niall nearly breaks his neck whipping around to see who spoke, heart slamming in his chest - and then he sees him, sitting on the ledge to his right. 

“...Harry?” 

Harry turns to look at him and smiles warmly. He’s wearing his flight uniform, not a hair out of place, just as he remembers. “Hello, Niall.” 

It’s like the time he took the benzedrine in Zayn’s flat, only this Harry is softer around the edges, less psychosis-induced and more lifelike. 

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Niall says, trance-like.

“I’m a busy man,” Harry grins, before producing a pack of cigarettes from his coat. As Niall watches, he lights one, a hand sheltering the flame from the wind. Smoke curls from his mouth, disappearing into the night sky. 

“Come closer, would you? Can barely hear you over the wind.” 

Niall goes over and sits next to him. Harry reaches out and puts his hand on top of his. It’s warm. 

“Do you miss me much?” he asks, still smiling. Niall’s throat closes up. What a question. 

“All the time.” 

A glass shatters in the street below. Niall looks down to see a man stumbling along the curb, pausing at a streetlamp to hunch over and vomit.

Niall smiles faintly, turning to Harry. “Hey, do you remember when-” 

There’s nothing but empty air next to him. Niall twists around to look at the roof, but there’s no one there either. 

Suddenly he’s angry at the man in the street for interrupting his hallucination, for allowing Harry to slip away. The man’s face is in lamplight, now, looking strangely familiar…

_Holy shit._

Niall scrambles across the roof and down the stairs at breakneck speed, knee screaming in protest, not caring if he wakes up the neighbors. He crashes into the corners of walls in the dark, stumbling down another flight of stairs to the door and bursting out onto the street, heart in his throat, praying he’s not too late, that he hasn’t lost him...

Relief washes over him as he spots the man shuffling away down the street and tripping over his own feet every few steps. 

“Louis!” he calls, running after him. _“Louis!”_

Louis turns slowly, squinting at him in the dark. 

“Niall?” 

Tears swell in Niall’s eyes as he breaks into a run. A hysterical laugh tumbles out of his mouth just before he crashes bodily into Louis, knocking him back a few steps with his force, and he flings his arms around him and pulls him into a bone-crushing hug, burying his face in Louis’ shoulder to hide the tears suddenly streaming down his face. 

“N- Niall?” Louis stammers, hands bracing unsteadily on Niall’s shoulders. “Holy...holy _shit_. Niall?” 

He pulls out of the hug, holding Niall at arm’s length, staring disbelievingly at his face. 

“Yeah, it’s me,” he blubbers, “It’s me.” 

“Oh my God,” Louis says, and then pulls him in again, squeezing him so tight Niall’s head might pop off. 

* * * 

The flat is a mess. Week-old newspapers, dishes piled in the sink from God knows when, empty bottle after empty bottle on the kitchen table. But Louis doesn’t say a word as he observes it all. Probably because he’s still drunk. 

Niall gets him a glass of water and sits him down at the tiny kitchen table before beginning to clear the counters and pick trash up off the floor. 

“Officially, I’m here looking for work,” Louis tells him when he asks what he’s doing in London. “Unofficially, it’s because El left me.” 

“Seriously?” 

Louis smiles grimly down at his tea, tapping grimy fingernails against the table. “Yep. She said it was because she’s headed for university now, and she doesn’t want...I dunno. She said it would be...more trouble than it’s worth. I know why she really did it, though, and I don’t blame her for it. I’m too much for her to - handle now,” he slurs, gesturing at his head. “I’ve gone a bit...screwy.”

“Me too,” Niall says, sinking back into a chair with sudden relief. So he’s not really insane. On second thought, maybe they both are. “My head’s fucked.” 

“Have you got a light?” Louis asks, pulling out a pack of Woodbines. 

Niall leans over and lights it for him. 

Louis takes a long drag, eyes half-lidded. “You’ve still got it,” he observes, leaning back. 

‘What?” 

“That lighter.” 

Niall glances down at the lighter in his hand. It’s cheap and takes a while to spark because it’s army issue, a privilege they could purchase if they saved up their rations, but he can’t part with it. It’s the one Harry carved his name into. 

“Louis, you...you bailed, right? And you survived.” 

“Barely.” 

“Right. I know this...sounds insane, but...do you think-”

“Don’t,” Louis says quietly, cutting him short. “Don’t do it to yourself, Niall. You’ll drive yourself mad wondering.” 

“But-” 

“They said he was killed in action. And they don’t just _say_ that. He’s gone. I know it’s hard to swallow; you two were close.” 

Niall falls silent, gritting his teeth. He stares into the flickering heat of the fire he’s started, a chill spreading over his skin. 

“You know, they managed to recover most of their bodies,” Louis says abruptly. “Which is...a miracle, if you ask me.” 

He clears his throat. 

“Whose body didn’t they find?” 

“Jack. Poor kid, I don’t even know if he’s got any family...” 

“He talked about a brother, once.” 

“Fionn begged me, you know.” 

Niall blinks, struggling to keep up with the jump from subject to subject. “What?” 

Louis shakes his head, staring into the fire. 

“Jack got out first. Then Bressie, and Liam - Liam helped me get out of the gunning pit, and then jumped. I don’t know how he managed it. He saved my life. Then as I was about to go, Fionn began to scream, and scream, and scream…” Louis squeezes his eyes shut. “He was panicking. Got his leg stuck somehow. He begged me to run down and help him. Pleaded with me. But I knew if I did we’d both die.

“So I left him there.” 

“Jesus Christ, Louis,” Niall whispers, horrified. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

“I might as well have put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger.” 

“Louis-” 

“I killed him, Niall. I was too selfish to do anything. I killed him.” 

“You had no choice-” 

“He was just a _kid,_ ” Louis whispers, ignoring him. “Better me than him, at the very least. Maybe one of us could have gotten out, if he’d hurried with the parachute-” 

_“You couldn’t have saved him,”_ Niall interrupts, leaning forward. “You know better than anyone how hard it is to get out of a gunner’s pit. Crossing the plane, helping him, then back to the hatch - it would’ve taken too much time. You were right. Neither of you would have made it.” 

“I can’t quit thinking about it, though,” Louis says, drawing a hand over his face. “I keep replaying every second, trying to see if I could have done something differently.” 

_That makes two of us,_ Niall thinks. 

“Can I tell you something?” 

Louis’ face has gone pained, brows drawn together in a deeply troubled expression, like he has to fight to get every word out. 

“You can tell me anything.” 

“Sometimes I…” Louis trails off, giving a small shake of his head. “I mean, I haven’t told anyone about this. I don’t dare...but sometimes...sometimes it gets so bad that I wonder if all of this is even...worth the trouble. D’you know what I mean?” 

“I know.” 

Louis still isn’t looking at him, gaze caught somewhere on the floor. “Yeah.” 

“I guess knowing you were still out there somewhere was half the reason I,” Niall hesitates, the words snagging in his mouth like fish hooks, unwilling to be said out loud. Saying things out loud makes them real, and there’s a sense that he’s caught in the middle of a dream, sleep-sluggish and delicate. He can’t break it. 

“Stayed,” he finishes. 

“Yeah.” 

They look at each other. A silent agreement passes between them: keep each other alive.

Louis tells him he’s posted up in a seedy hotel nearby and Niall insists that he at least stays the night. He gives Louis his own bed, and Louis is just drunk enough to comply without argument. Niall takes the lumpy couch in the front room. 

When Louis wakes up sober the next morning, he realizes he’s changed. The Louis that he knew less than a year ago has been, for lack of a better word, diluted. He’s sluggish and tired and battle-worn - just like Niall. 

One of the first things he does is get Louis a job at the same site as him, which is the easy part, because extra hands are always needed. The second task is the difficult one - convincing Louis to move in. 

“I’d feel like a leech,” Louis argues. “I can get by on my own just fine.” 

“I don’t doubt that, Louis. It’s not about that. You’d be doing me a favor.” 

“I’m not a charity case!” 

“I never _said_ that.” 

“You thought it.” 

“Did not.” 

“Did too.” 

“Shut up.” 

“ _You_ shut up.” 

Niall nearly hurls something at him, but ultimately decides it would not be effective in convincing Louis to move in - which Louis finally does, after a lot of hemming and hawing. Niall’s relieved - as much for the company as he is for the split rent. 

As it is, after a month they end up moving to a different building a few blocks away that’s closer to where the reconstruction sites are. Both insomniacs, they spend many of their nights up on the rooftop, shivering in their threadbare jackets, passing a cigarette back and forth, and talking. 

“I mean, what the fuck did we do to deserve this?” Louis asks angrily one night during one of his tirades, gesturing wildly to the sky as if to reference all the universe. “What gods did we fuckin’ anger?” 

Niall runs a thumb over Harry’s ring, nail catching on the engraved letter. WInd pushes hair into his eyes.

“Dunno. Suppose it’s just...bad luck.” 

“Bad luck my arse,” Louis bites out. “The big guy has it out for us, Niall. I’m telling you.” He waves his finger at him. 

Niall mindlessly says, “everything happens for a reason,” and Louis goes positively berserk. 

“What the _fuck_ does that even _mean_ ?” he shouts, wind swallowing up his words. “What kind of reason could there be for this shit? What kind of _fucked_ up- _”_ he kicks the rooftop hatch angrily, face going red- “ _bullshit_ is that?” 

Niall watches him lazily, then reaches for another beer, but Louis gets to it before he does. He grabs it and hurls it over the edge of the roof. 

Louis turns back towards him, red-faced, chest heaving. “Cut that shit _out_ , Niall, I swear to God.” 

“Or else what?” 

“I’ll beat the shit out of you,” he says, without a drop of malice. 

Niall sniffs, unbothered. 

“That bottle could’ve killed someone.”

“Yeah? I don’t care.” 

The breeze pulls goosebumps to the surface of Niall’s skin, and he shivers as he stares sullenly up at Louis like a defiant kid. 

Sapped from his outburst, Louis turns away from him and disappears through the roof hatch. The echoing sound of his boots on the metal ladder floats through the air and then fades. 

Louis is right, he supposes. Some things, like war, are just too evil to have a reasonable explanation. Certainly not one that can alleviate the pain by any measure. Some things just have to be lived with. 

* * *

Niall joins the queue in the warm, brightly lit interior of the Regency Cafe, squinting up at the blackboard menus with his hands shoved in his pockets. 

It’s a little corner cafe a few blocks from the hospital Niall’s work team was relocated to yesterday after Petherton Road was complete. The initial work of heaving the larger pieces of rubble around was harder labor than he was used to, and when his appetite got the better of him, he thought he’d try Regency since Charlie kept raving about it.

He glances around. There are still recruitment flyers tacked to the walls. The red leather of the booths by the window is cracked and peeling. A woman sits alone at one of them, cup to her lips and gaze fixed somewhere outside. When she puts the cup down, Niall recognizes her with a shock. 

_Taylor_. 

Different hairdo, different shade of lipstick, but most definitely her. 

He’d seen her shortly after Harry was declared Killed in Action. She was sitting in the mess hall next to one of her girlfriends, holding perfectly still with her elbows on the table and her hands clasped together. Mascara was smudged around her eyes, but she wasn’t crying. Whether she and Harry were friends or lovers, he didn’t fully know, but he knew Harry was important to her. And if Niall was a better man, he would have gone over to her then. It’s what Harry would have done, had the roles been reversed. 

He crosses the room. 

“Taylor?” 

Her head lifts, eyes locking with his. For a moment, confusion clouds her face - and then her expression clears into something like relief. 

“Niall! What are you doing here?” 

“I’m with the crew working on the hospital, down on Rochester,” he says, suddenly self-conscious of the soot on his clothes. There are other men similarly dressed here, but next to Taylor and her spotless dress he looks like a grease rag. “I was just stopping for a bite before going back.” 

“Sit down, won’t you?” Taylor says, gesturing to the seat across from her. “If you can spare a minute. I haven’t seen you in ages.” 

Stomach grumbling quietly, Niall settles down at the table, doing his best to hide his grimy fingernails from her. 

“So what are you doing out here?” he asks. 

Taylor huffs out a laugh, spreading her manicured hands out on the tabletop. 

“Work. I got transferred to a different base pretty soon after you left, and then I came to London afterwards and got a job as a secretary. It’s awful, dry stuff. I miss working with the girls,” she says, taking a quick sip of her tea. 

“Right,” Niall says, clearing his throat. He’d never known what it was Taylor did at Wickenby, though Harry hypothesized code-breaking, which for obvious reasons was all very hush hush. 

“I have to say,” Taylor starts abruptly, setting her cup down with a soft _clink_ , “how glad I am to see you.” 

Niall tears his eyes away from the plate of sausages the next table over. 

“You too. It’s been a while.” 

Taylor blinks. 

“Well, I mean - yes, but I meant that I - a few of us, your crew of course, and others - we-” 

She pauses, pursing her lips. Niall frowns. 

“After Harry,” she begins again, voice quieter, “we were all very concerned about you.” 

Niall shifts uncomfortably, covering Harry’s ring with his other hand under the table. 

“Concerned?” 

“Well, you were quite upset,” she explains, her eyes round and placating. “Even by the time you left. You two were very close, and his loss must have had a great impact on you. So we were afraid you might...do something drastic.” 

_Oh._

He swallows, dropping his gaze. The back of his neck begins to prickle. 

“Of course not,” he says. “I mean, I wouldn’t. I’m really not the type.” 

“That’s good,” Taylor nods. “I don’t mean to offend you. I only meant-” 

“It’s okay. I appreciate the concern.” 

“You know, you’re practically all he ever talked about.” 

Niall’s gut twists, hard, face growing hot. He clears his throat again. 

“Really?” 

Taylor laughs quietly. “It was always, Niall this, Niall that. ‘Can you go out tonight?’ No, Niall and I are playing Go Fish, Niall and I are going drinking, Niall and I are painting the plane. One hundred percent attached at the hip.” 

Niall smiles down at his lap despite himself, even though every word she speaks about Harry feels like a knife to the gut and he’d rather she stop or else he may very well break down in the middle of the cafe. 

“So it was perfectly reasonable the way you reacted.” 

His smile fades slowly. 

“But you two were close as well, weren’t you?” he asks, and it sounds less accusatory than he feels. “It must have been just as hard.” 

Taylor tilts her head to the side, pushing the beans on her plate around with a fork, a strange, wistful look on her face. 

“We might have been more than friends...” 

It strikes Niall as an extremely odd answer, until she finishes her sentence. 

“...but I always got the sense there was someone else involved.” 

Taylor looks up at him sharply. He stiffens.

“Who?” 

“No idea,” she shrugs, and looks back down quickly. “Of course, it doesn’t matter now. Didn’t matter much then, either. He was a good friend.” 

Niall nods wordlessly, sinking back into his chair. He hadn’t spoken about Harry with anyone since he died. Taylor had caught him off-guard. And her comments about this “someone else” right after going on about how close he and Harry were seemed more than a little suggestive in his opinion, despite there being no truth to the first part. Taylor was kind, yes. But he had no reason to trust her, or assume that she wouldn’t get him arrested, even on the basis of suspicion. 

Even for loving a dead man. 

“Well, I won’t keep you too long,” Niall tells her with a brittle smile, sliding out of the booth. “It was lovely to see you, Taylor. We should have lunch sometime.” 

“Yes, of course. And we’ll talk about more cheerful things then,” Taylor promises. 

Niall walks back to the hospital hungry. It’s ridiculous, to him, that he managed to hide his feelings for Harry for years and only after his death did seemingly everyone else start putting the pieces together. 

Louis had realized within their first week together. 

“Hey, wait a minute,” he had said suddenly, grabbing Niall’s hand and holding it up to the light. “Isn’t that-” 

Niall stood there, stunned, blood rushing to his face. “Um, actually, it’s a family-” 

Louis dropped his hand and just looked at him for a minute, silent. And then his face turned sad. 

“Oh, Niall.” 

“What?” he blurted, trying desperately to keep the panic out of his voice. He knew how it looked. Holding onto Harry’s lighter, his ring, his face in the photograph he kept by his bed. _“What?”_

Louis only shook his head. They never spoke of it again, and Niall didn’t have to ask to know he knew - and he didn’t have to ask to know Louis would never say anything to anyone. 

* * *

On Thursday, Charlie is nowhere to be seen - unusual, because Charlie never missed a day on the job since Niall had met him. He had 3 little sisters at home and a sick mother, so he needed those wages like he needed his legs. 

He taps Fred, another worker, on the shoulder, and asks, “Have you seen Charlie yet?” 

Fred throws a brick down and gives him a strange look. “Didn’t you hear?” 

“What?” 

“He was arrested last night,” Fred snorts, and drops his voice, leaning in close to continue. “ _He’s a poofter._ Got caught in some bar.” 

Niall stares at him almost uncomprehendingly, blood rushing in his ears. 

Fred narrows his eyes. 

“You were pals with him, weren’t you?” 

“I was,” he says, urging his voice to remain steady. “Wow. Had no idea, Christ.” 

“Yep,” Fred mutters, going back to work, tossing another brick over his shoulder into the truck. “They’re everywhere these days.” 

Niall nods, but his hands are shaking like leaves in the wind. When they break for lunch, he heads back to the flat. He locks the door behind him and pours himself a drink straight away, trembling so badly by this point that most of it sloshes out on the kitchen counter. 

That’s how he spends the rest of the day - splayed out on the couch, drunk out of his mind, a never ending line of empty bottles on the floor in front of him. Around 6, the nausea peaks. He gets up to go to the toilet and vomit, but he hits the floor before he ever gets there, dizziness overtaking him. He pukes on the floor next to him and then lays back down, head throbbing. He can’t breathe too well, either - in fact he can hardly breathe at all - but he passes out before it becomes too much of a problem. 

He finds himself standing on a cold beach, clouds lining the horizon. Weak rays of sunlight glitter on the water’s surface. It’s familiar, he’s been here before, in child’s bones, brighter eyes, a clearer mind. The taste of brine in his mouth. A hollowness in his stomach. Harry - or Charlie? - walks away from him, down the beach, water tugging at his clothes, at his hair, til he disappears underneath the blue. He races after him, bare feet slipping on smooth stones in the sand, droplets flecking his pants. He dives underwater and opens his eyes to find a graveyard - row after row after row of uniform pearl-white headstones as far as he can see, and him, there, laying down in an open grave and folding his hands over his chest. 

Niall’s ears begin to ring, lungs aching for air as he pushes towards him. The pressure builds in his skull. He cannot stop the sand from pouring over his body, and he cannot unbury him, though he tries, hands scraping uselessly through layers of silt while he suffocates, chest on fire, indigo blurring in his vision. Darkness sets in slowly, slowly, horror washing over him as he looks up and sees the sunlight fading. Cold black water slides over his body, darkness seeps down his throat, it chokes him- 

_“Niall!”_

He feels himself being slapped across the face, hard, but it’s like it’s happening to someone else. 

His eyes slide open. He’s watching his own death play out on a movie screen, black and white lines flickering, stop-motion animation, Louis bending over his body, splashing him with a glass of cold water, closing the open window. It’s snowing outside. Beautiful crystals flutter to earth, snowbanks piling in the streets, cold metal street lamps, yellow circles of light floating through his vision. _Just as well,_ Niall thinks, eyes rolling back in his skull as Louis pulls the telephone towards him and begins dialing frantically, the click click click of the rotary dial slinging back and forth in his head. It’s getting dark again. It’s getting hard to think. 

_“Stay awake, Niall,”_ Louis is saying, voice panicked, _“Don’t - fuck, don’t do this to me-”_

* * *

Niall opens his eyes and immediately squeezes them shut again. His head aches like it’s been split with an axe, and the lights overhead are shining with the force of the sun. 

He cracks them open again, slowly, and peers down at his body. Thin white hospital gown, clean white sheets, white metal bed frame. Across the aisle is an identical bed, empty. To his left - a man moaning in his sleep, face twisted in pain. To his right, another man staring at the ceiling. He leans back on the pillow and closes his eyes again before he can think too much about anything, and falls asleep. 

The second time he wakes up, a nurse is fussing with something beside his bed. She has beautiful hair - flaming red curls, pinned back at the nape of her neck - and Niall begins to tell her so, but falls asleep before a word leaves his mouth. 

The third time, Louis is standing over him, face hard. 

Niall, unwilling and a little afraid to have a conversation with him, closes his eyes, but he feels a sharp pain in his ribs when he does. 

“You selfish son of a bitch,” Louis growls, dragging up a chair to sit on. “What the hell were you thinking?” 

Niall stares at him through slitted eyes, guilt festering in his gut like spoilt food. 

“I wasn’t,” he starts, and means to say ‘I wasn’t _trying_ to kill myself,’ but decides to leave it at that. 

“You scared the living hell out of me,” Louis hisses. There are violet shadows beneath his eyes, day old stubble on his jaw. “You promised me, Niall. You had no right to - we promised each other we wouldn’t-”

“It was an accident,” Niall breaks in, already weary. “I swear. I didn’t realize how much I had to drink, that’s all.”

Louis is quietly angry for a while, observing him. 

“I saved your life,” he says finally, voice so soft Niall has to strain to hear him, “and you don’t even fucking want it.” 

Niall blinks. 

“Wait - that’s not true,” he says, panicking when Louis gets up and makes to leave. “ _Louis,”_ he pleads, grabbing hold of his sleeve. “I do want it. I swear. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”

Louis pulls away from him. Niall watches him walk down the long hospital aisle and then leave, the faded brown double doors swinging in his wake. 

The nurse comes in right after and sweeps over to Niall’s bedside, a glossy pamphlet clutched in her hand. 

“This is for you,” she says, in a thick Irish accent that reminds Niall so jarringly of home that he loses his breath. 

“When did you come to London?” he asks her conversationally, taking the pamphlet she offered him, and watches the recognition light up her face. 

“Three years ago,” she answers, smiling brightly. “I miss it terribly, though. It’s always good to hear a familiar voice.” 

He glances down. 

_Is A.A. For You? Twelve Questions Only You Can Answer._

“A.A.?” he asks, frowning. 

“Alcoholics Anonymous,” she says in a decidedly hushed voice. “There’s a chapter in London - the address is on the back. It’s to help people recover from dependencies. Of course, it’s only a suggestion, you’re under no obligation to go. I’m just required to give it to you.” 

“Oh,” Niall says, staring at the blue block letters on the pamphlet, ears going red. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it,” she smiles. “You’re free to go whenever you’d like. I believe your friend’s waiting outside for you.” 

“Thanks.” 

Fifteen minutes later, Niall steps out into blinding sunshine. Louis stares at him coolly, a lit cigarette between his lips. 

“What’d they do to me,” Niall asks. His voice is flat. 

“Pumped your stomach.” 

“Right.” 

They stand, silent. Louis stamps out his cigarette when the wind begins to blow the smoke in Niall’s direction, and that’s when he knows he’s forgiven. At least partially. And that’s also when he knows he can’t do this to Louis ever again. 

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Forget it,” Louis says, shrugging it off.

A week later, he finds himself seated in a wooden chair in a hall thirty minutes away from their flat, among other chairs arranged in a circle, each one occupied by an alcoholic like himself. In his pocket, neatly folded, is the pamphlet the nurse had given him. 

On the inside were questions like, _have you had problems connected with drinking during the past year? Has your drinking caused trouble at home? Do you have blackouts? Do you need a drink to get started, or stop shaking? Have you ever felt that your life would be better if you did not drink?_

(Niall had marked yes for each of them.)

A light-haired man opposite him in the circle begins to speak. 

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is the regular meeting of the Essex chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous. My name is Henry. I am an alcoholic and your Secretary.” 

He pauses and turns to the next page in his little booklet. 

“Let us open the meeting with the Serenity Prayer: ‘ _God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference_.’”

Alcoholics Anonymous is a fellowship of men and women who share their experience, strength, and hope with each other so that they may solve their common problem and help others to recover from alcoholism. The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop drinking. There are no dues or fees for AA membership; we are self-supporting through our own contributions. Our primary purpose is to stay sober and help other alcoholics to achieve sobriety. ” 

Now, we ask that our new members introduce yourselves by first name only. New members are anyone who has a desire to stop drinking and are within their first thirty days in AA.” 

Niall begins to sweat. 

“I’m Carol,” a woman to his left says. Her nails are painted fire-engine red, and there’s a nervous quiver to her mouth as she speaks. “I’m from Surrey. It’s my first day.” 

“I’m Bradley,” another man says. “This is my tenth day at AA.” 

“Edward, from Cheshire. It’s my second week.” 

He flinches involuntarily at that, glancing up at the man - curly blond hair, big brown eyes, no resemblance at all - 

He opens his mouth to speak, mouth dry. 

“My name is Niall. I’m from Mullingar, Ireland. This is my first day.” 

A couple of heads swivel his way, curious eyes, some not so friendly. Niall grits his teeth and stares straight ahead at Henry. 

“Welcome, all of you,” Henry says, directing a warm smile at the group. “Let’s read the Steps.” 

Sharon, on Henry’s left, takes the booklet he offers and reads off the first of the twelve Steps: “‘We admitted we were powerless over alcohol, that our lives had become unmanageable.’” 

She passes the booklet, and the next person reads, and the next. _We came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity...We made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood him. We made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves...made a list of all persons we had harmed...made direct amends to such people._

Because the group is so large, the booklet never makes it to him. Niall marvels at the number of anonymous faces around him, men and women, young and old. People he might have passed at the grocer’s without second thought. Maybe even fellow soldiers. 

“Is there anyone who would like to speak about their journey?” Henry asks, and there is. 

Susan, mother of four, whose husband went missing in the war. David, whose father was an alcoholic, and his father before that. Edward, the one from Cheshire, who began drinking when he was less than nine years old. Clara, a nurse with a gambling problem to boot. Matthew, a banker. John, a cab driver. Complete strangers who could not be farther removed from his life but who are exactly like him, in some ways. Lonely, tired, and trying to fix their problems by drinking themselves stupid. 

By the time he leaves the hall, two chocolate biscuits from the refreshment table carefully wrapped in a napkin and tucked in his pocket, he’s in considerably good spirits. He _can_ stay sober. He can get to where Henry is if only he tries hard enough. 

* * * 

He spends a week tapering off, and then the hard part begins. 

One day sober. Two days. On the third day, he gives in. One day, two days, three, six, relapse. One week. Two weeks. Four, relapse. Three days. Relapse. Twelve days. Relapse. A month, relapse. A month and a half. Relapse. One day. Relapse. 

In between, he pens letters to Harry, because it helped him that first time, even if only temporarily. 

_I wish I could forget everything. It’s awful to say, awful to even consider an existence where I don’t know you, but it’s causing me so much fucking grief._

_Do ghosts know forgiveness? If they do, this is me begging for yours. You can haunt me till the sun blinks out, I don’t care. Selfishly, I just want to know that you don’t hate me. I could never stand when you were angry with me. You know that._

Niall drops the pencil on the table and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. His ribs feel too tight for his lungs, for his heart, like there’s something living in there and it’s screaming to be let out. 

The dirty dishes pile up steadily in the sink, and he and Louis only watch, two listless gray shadows on the couch. He thinks their bodies weren’t built to withstand pain like this. Such monumental sadness isn’t natural. 

_I don’t know what dying feels like, but I reckon it must be something like the way I feel when I think about you._

Niall watches himself ebb and fade, collapse and regrow each day, learning to live with the pain and sometimes do it without numbing himself to death. 

_These days I feel more human than I knew I could be. I am trying to get better. It’s hard._

The work at Petherton Road finishes, and they move on to the next, and to the next, and to the next - ash and dirt coating the lines in his palms, handprints of gray on his clothes. His body aches from hard work instead of sadness. He gets a smile out of Louis almost every day, and it feels like a bruise beginning to yellow. 

_Everything feels like a dream I wish I could wake up from. If I pinch myself hard enough, will I see you again? I’m trying so hard to let you go, you know._

A whole year passes. By the time Eleanor reappears in Louis’ life and they fix things and decide they want to move back home, there isn’t an ounce of resentment in Niall’s body at the news. It doesn’t feel like abandonment. It feels good, knowing Louis will be happier and safer elsewhere with El at his side. The resulting loneliness feels less like punishment and more like opportunity. 

So, finally, he says goodbye to the home he nearly died in and sets his sights on a land untouched by any of his past horrors: America. 

* * * * *

Here come twilight towns in the midwest where dusk never lifts and the land is painted in hazy, sweeping brush strokes. Evergreen forests with fog that rolls over like a thick cotton blanket. Los Angeles and New York City, Boston and Chicago and San Francisco and Houston. North Carolina, Washington, Kansas, Arizona, Michigan, California again. A brief venture over the border in Canada, a longer one down south in Mexico. He drinks everything up. He has his fill. He spends years and years, drifting ghost-like, hitchhiking town to city to town, earning just enough to eat, making friends and never really keeping them. Sometimes he thinks he passes Harry in the street, or spots the back of his head in a crowded bar, but the resemblance fades on second glance. 

Years and years pass. Decades, even. He finds his way back home in his dreams, always; the only true north he’s ever had. He treasures the images that his subconscious offers up, those meager gifts that he worries over until they slip through his fingers entirely, threads unwinding, some real memories and some just wishful thinking. A smile shimmering through sheets of rain. Fingers brushing in the dark. Mouths colliding like a sucker punch to the gut. Silent laughter. Devotion like a poison, curling in his throat, trapped there for eternity, a true friend, a real love - and yet nothing he could ever hold on to. 

_We’ll come back for you._ Old words slide along the ridges of his teeth like ice. _Promise me you’ll wait._

He closes his eyes and sees Harry’s attempt at a smile, the very last thing he ever saw of him, words hanging in the air even after he was gone. 

_I promise._

_April 1996_

Niall follows a nurse down the hallway, the orange _VISITOR_ sticker on his jacket starting to peel off. It’s only just beginning to sink in that he’s really here, that he’s about to see Louis for the first time since 1947, and that there’s a very real possibility he won’t even recognize Niall in his old age. 

Guilt makes him light-headed. After a certain point in the late ‘50s he knew he couldn’t see Louis anymore, because it would certainly give him away - Louis with gray at his temples and crow’s feet and Niall as fresh-faced as the day they met - but he struggled with it for ages, trying desperately to find some way around it. How awful it must have been for Louis, receiving those hasty postcards from America over and over with a hollow promise to visit soon every time. It was a letter that finally brought him here, to this hospital in England, from Louis’ younger sister, Daisy. It reached him in San Francisco two weeks late after being forwarded from three different addresses across the country. 

“Here we are,” the nurse says, coming to a stop in front of a door marked _304._ “You’ll need to check out at the front desk on your way out.” 

“Thanks,” Niall mumbles, but she’s already turned away and started clicking down the hallway in her pumps.

He twists the doorknob slowly, heart pounding, eyes falling to the elderly man lying awake in the bed. 

Niall swallows, stunned. Clear tubes snake away from Louis’ frail body, IVs dripping by the nightstand. His hair has gone completely white, and his face is horribly pale. 

“Niall?” Cloudy eyes meet his. The voice is reedy and thin with age, but it’s unmistakably Louis’. “Is that you?” 

“Yeah,” he says, stepping into the room as his voice breaks. “It’s Niall. It’s me.” 

Louis’ face breaks into a halting smile, and suddenly Niall’s unsteady on his feet. He pulls a chair up next to the bed and sinks into it slowly, watching Louis’ face change as he studies him. 

“Niall?” Louis whispers, brows drawing together. “You’re-” 

Niall eyes the heart monitor cautiously. He doesn’t want to actually kill him with the shock. 

“Is that really you?” Louis whispers, still frowning, eyes filling with sudden tears. “You look so young.” 

Niall reaches out and takes his hand, squeezing it lightly. 

“I’m right here, Louis. Promise.” 

“I only ask because - because sometimes I see El, you know, and Fred, he tells me she’s not really there.” 

Niall tries not to let it show on his face because he doesn’t want to upset Louis more, but Jesus Christ, it feels like someone’s stuck a knife clear through his guts. Eleanor - dead? It doesn’t seem possible. She’s forever etched in his mind the way he remembers her from half a century ago, impossibly graceful and kind. 

“I don’t understand,” Louis says, voice going higher. “You look the same, Niall, the same as when we first met-” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Niall says gently, patting his hand while watching his heart rate rise on the monitor. “Don’t worry.” 

Louis closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, he looks calm again. It’s surreal, to see his best friend reduced to this shell - all the spite and fire and sharp tongue fading away. He’s really, truly dying. He’s nearly gone.

“I’m seeing things again,” Louis says with a weak laugh. The smile fades gradually from his face. “Why did you never visit?” 

Niall swallows around the lump in his throat. “I couldn’t, I’m sorry. I wanted to, believe me.”

“Lucky for you, I’m a forgiving man.” 

Louis smiles and Niall’s chest feels like it’s caving in. 

“Thank you,” he blurts, voice thick. “For everything.” 

Louis watches him with steady, kind eyes. 

“I never did much for you.” 

“You saved my life,” he says, and means it in more ways than one. 

Louis’ face goes sad. He holds on to Niall’s hand tighter. “Are you alright these days, Niall? Are you happy?” 

The question hangs in the air for a moment. Niall considers it. He’s pieced himself back together as best he can; it’s not pretty, and it’s not neat, but then again - it doesn’t have to be. 

“I think so.” 

“You’re a good man,” Louis tells him quietly. “It’s the least of what you deserve.”

Niall blinks rapidly, eyes wet. He stares down at his feet. Louis lays his head back on his pillow with a sigh, looking straight up at the ceiling. 

“My, it’s been quite a life, hasn’t it.” 

“It has.” 

“I almost don’t want to leave,” he says. Niall looks up at him. “But I’ve got people waiting on me,” Louis continues with a faint smile, still gazing at the ceiling. “And I miss them terribly, you know.”

A nurse opens the door suddenly, startling him. 

“Sir? Visiting hours are over.” 

It hasn’t been nearly long enough. He looks back at Louis, who’s still staring blankly, and lets go of his hand. A bittersweet goodbye is resting in the back of his mouth. The nurse opens the door wider to let him through, and he turns back to see Louis looking at him, mouth curved in his old, conspiring smile. 

“See you around, Niall,” Louis says, gesturing upwards. Niall almost laughs. He nods instead. It feels like a sin to lie to a dying man. 

He speed-walks down the white hospital corridor, headed for the exit. Tears are catching thick and fast at the back of his throat, burning in his eyes, and he brushes at them with the back of his hand, a sob welling in his chest. 

It’s a terrible, terrible thing to live forever. 

* * * 

Seven days later, he finds himself standing in the rain while Louis’ casket is lowered into the ground. He lingers in the background, lost among the myriad of friends and family Louis amassed over the years, all standing around him now to say their last goodbyes. Closest stands Freddie, who Niall’s never met but who looks so strikingly similar to his father that for a second he loses his breath. Save for the grandkids, Niall looks about the youngest here. It still makes his head spin, a little bit, to think about that. 

The minister’s words are lost in the wind. Children huddle closer to their parent’s legs, bundled up in dark winter clothes, scarves halfway up their cheeks. Only their eyes peek out, bright and watery. Niall feels the rain smatter gently across his own face, the squish of mud beneath his shoes. How curious it was, that during the war they spent so much time trying to keep themselves up in the air, terrified of the possibility of crashing back down to earth, only to finally end up six feet under the ground until the sun blinked out. 

He slips away when they start shoveling earth over the casket. No one sees him go. But he doesn’t feel alone in any sense; he’s already said his goodbyes, and Louis’ forgiven him for showing up at the last possible moment of his life. He died surrounded by the people he loved, the way it should be. This is one person whose life hasn’t been ripped violently from his grasp. This is the most gentle goodbye Niall has ever known. 

_August 2015_

Late afternoon sunshine filters through the window, warm against his skin. He switches the TV on and heads into the kitchen to make himself tea. The flat is quiet. 

_“Temperatures will start off nice and cool, so grab those layers before you head out the door. Bright sunshine ahead with wind out of the north to northwest, about five to ten miles per hour. It’s looking like a good week ahead as temperatures warm up, we’re talking upper 20s, some spots could even reach the 30s. Lisa, back to you.”_

Niall pours tea into his favorite mug and stirs a large spoonful of honey into it. 

_“Tamara, thank you. Here’s an update on the case we’ve been following recently - a string of attacks in London in which victims claim they were_ bitten _by an unknown man. Police have shared with us a photograph of the main suspect.”_

Niall’s eyebrows twitch up in interest. He turns to see the photo, raising the tea to his lips- 

The half-amused smile fades from his face. The cup falls from his hand, shattering deafeningly on the kitchen floor. Scalding hot tea splashes over his socked feet, but Niall doesn’t even react. He can’t. Every muscle in his body has stilled. His heart’s going double time. There’s nothing but static in his ears. 

It’s impossible. There isn’t half a chance in hell that what he’s seeing is right. He must be hallucinating, must be dreaming, must be- 

The photograph is blurry. It’s pulled from security footage. The man in it is wearing a dark hat and the collar of his coat is pulled up high so only part of his face shows. 

_Impossible_. 

But Niall would know that face anywhere. He’d know it blind. He’d know it dead. Because he’s been seeing it in his dreams for the last seventy years. 

  
  
  


It’s Harry. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can find me @spacestylans (@merrystylans right now) on tumblr
> 
> Some fun facts:
> 
> \- When Zayn offers for Niall to take his book down to the shop to get tea, he’s referring to his ration book. In Sept. 1939, the Emergency Powers Act was introduced in Ireland, which allowed the government to control censorship in newspapers and letters. Rationing of food, clothes, and gasoline was also introduced then.  
> \- All the newspaper articles / descriptions of headlines, etc are based on real issues from the 40s  
> \- The powdered candy zayn offers niall is actually fun dip! it was created in 1942 in two flavors: cherry and orange. it resurfaced in the 1970s with the new name of fun dip, a bunch of new flavors, and a candy stick to use instead of just eating it with your fingers.  
> \- Petherton Road was actually bombed out during the war and reconstruction did take place there.  
> \- Alcoholics Anonymous did not become an international organization until 1950, but for the sake of the story, it did in 1947.  
> \- The Regency Cafe is a real place in Westminster that opened in 1946 - and it’s still open today! 
> 
> part three will be posted ASAP :)

**Author's Note:**

> if you want, please comment with any feedback or reactions, that stuff makes my day!  
> you can also find me on tumblr @spacestylans. if you have any questions or don't know what a particular term means, i'd love to talk more about the Royal Air Force/WWII/this fic there :) 
> 
> (part two is coming ASAP!)


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